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OF 

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This  book   is  DUE  on   the  last  date  stamped   below 


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SI 


THE    TAMINA    GORGE   AT    RAGATZ 


u> 


The 
Playground  of  Europe 


By 

Leslie  Stephen 


266  a» 

"  We  complain  of  the  mountains  as  rubbish,  as  not  only  disfiguring  the 
face  of  the  earth,  but  also  to  us  useless  and  inconvenient ;  and  yet,  with- 
out these,  neither  rivers  nor  fountains  nor  the  weather  for  producing  and 
ripening  fruits  could  regularly  be  produced." 

Abp.  King  On  the  Origin  of  Evil. 


Illustrated 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  and  London 

Gbe  fmicfcerbocfter    ipress 

1909 


"Che  ftnfcfeerbocfcer  press,  "Hew  JBorfc 


3 


TO 
M.   GABRIEL  LOPPE 


MY  DEAR  LOPPE, 

Twenty-one  years  ago  we  climbed  Mont  Blanc  together  to 
watch  the  sunset  from  the  summit.  Less  than  a  year  ago  we 
observed  the  same  phenomenon  from  the  foot  of  the  mountain. 
The  intervening  years  have  probably  made  little  difference  in 
the  sunset.  If  they  have  made  some  difference  in  our  powers  of 
reaching  the  best  point  of  view,  they  have,  I  hope,  diminished 
neither  our  admiration  of  such  spectacles,  nor  our  pleasure  in 
each  other's  companionship.  If,  indeed,  I  have  retained  my 
love  of  the  Alps,  it  has  been  in  no  small  degree  owing  to  you. 
Many  walks  in  your  company,  some  of  which  arc  described  in 
this  volume,  have  confirmed  both  our  friendship  and  our  common 
worship  of  the  mountains.  I  wish,  therefore,  to  connect  your 
name  with  this  new  edition  of  my  old  attempt  to  set  forth  the 
delights  of  Alpine  rambling.  Xo  one  understands  the  delights 
better  than  you,  and  no  one,  I  am  sure,  will  be  a  more  lenient 
critic  of  the  work  of  an  old  friend. 

Yours  ever, 

Leslie  Stephen. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION 

This  volume  is  a  collection,  with  certain  addi- 
tions and  alterations,  of  articles  which  have 
appeared  in  Fraser's  Magazine,  in  the  publica- 
tions of  the  Alpine  Club,  and  in  the  Cornhill 
Magazine.  I  call  attention  to  the  alterations 
and  additions,  not  because  I  imagine  that  any 
large  number  of  Alpine  enthusiasts  have  learnt  my 
writings  by  heart,  or  will  resent  changes  as  I  have 
sometimes  resented  a  fresh  touch  in  one  of  Mr. 
Tennyson's  familiar  poems,  but  by  way  of  making 
one  of  those  apologies  which  we  all  know  to  be 
useless,  and  which  yet  have  an  inexpressible 
attraction  for  a  writer.  One  does  not  make  a  bad 
book  good  by  giving  notice  of  its  faults,  nor  can  one 
hope  to  soften  the  inexorable  ferocity  of  critics. 
And  yet  I  am  possessed  with  a  nervous  feeling, 
like  that  of  a  gentleman  entering  an  evening  party 
with  a  consciousness  that  his  neckcloth  is  badly 
tied,  and  endeavouring  by  an  utterly  futile  con- 
tortion to  put  it  right  at  the  last  moment.  With 
my  eyes  open  to  the  weakness  of  my  conduct,  I 
do  what  I  have  often  condemned  in  others,  and 


vi  Preface  to  First  Edition 

make  a  statement  which  I  might  more  wisely 
leave  to  my  enemies.  The  case,  then,  is  this.  I 
have  endeavoured  to  remove  from  these  papers 
one  glaring  fault.  Most  of  them  were  originally 
written  for  a  small  and  very  friendly  audience;  and 
whilst  the  pen  was  in  my  hand,  I  had  a  vision 
before  my  eyes  of  a  few  companions  sitting  at  the 
door  of  some  Swiss  inn,  smoking  the  pipe  of  peace 
after  a  hard  day's  walk,  and  talking  what  every- 
body talks,  from  archbishops  to  navvies;  that 
is  to  say,  what  is  ordinarily  called  "shop."  I  was 
simply  prolonging  pleasant  chats  about  guides  and 
snow-slopes  and  aretes,  and  ropes  and  crevasses, 
which  had  a  strange  interest  at  the  time,  and  were 
delightful  even  in  the  recollection.  As  some  often- 
cited  painter  used  to  work  at  his  pictures  in  a  court 
dress  by  way  of  maintaining  a  dignified  frame  of 
mind,  I  could  hardly  scribble  my  undignified  narra- 
tives in  anything  but  a  rusty  old  shooting-coat 
perfumed  with  tobacco,  and  still  marked  by  the 
rope  that  had  often  been  fastened  round  it.  It 
was  perhaps  excusable  that  there  should  intrude 
into  my  pages  a  certain  quantity  of  slang,  and  a 
large  allowance  of  exceedingly  bad  jokes.  On 
presenting  myself  to  a  larger  public  I  have  en- 
deavoured to  perform  the  painful  operation  of 
self-mutilation.  The  slang,  I  would  fain  hope, 
has    been    ruthlessly    excised;    but    the    pain    of 


Preface  to  First  Edition  vii 

dismissing  a  poor  old  joke,  at  which  its  author 
has  smiled  with  parental  affection,  and  which  his 
friends  have  condescended  to  accept  as  more  or 
less  facetious,  inflicts  so  cruel  a  pang,  that  I  fear 
some  intolerable  specimens  may  remain.  More- 
over one  cannot  alter  the  tone  of  a  narrative, 
though  one  may  remove  its  most  palpable  blem- 
ishes ;  and  I  fear  that  there  will  be  in  the  following 
chapters  a  certain  suspicious  flavour  as  of  con- 
versation not  quite  fitted  for  polite  society,  which 
no  use  of  literary  disinfectants  has  quite  removed. 
If  so,  I  must  try  to  console  myself  for  the  blame 
which  I  shall  incur.  The  book  is  offered  chiefly 
to  those  fellow-lunatics — if  they  will  forgive  the 
expression — who  love  the  Alps  too  well  not  to 
pardon  something  to  the  harmless  monomaniac 
who  shares  their  passion.  And  I  would  fain  hope 
that  with  the  indecorum  there  will  remain  some 
sense  of  the  pleasure  with  which  these  pages  were 
first  written.  The  way  to  make  others  feel  is  to 
feel  oneself;  and  I  will  make,  shall  I  call  it  a  boast 
or  a  confession?  which  is  perhaps  less  prudent 
than  the  apology.  I  not  only  wrote  these  pages 
with  pleasure,  but  I  have  read  them  over  again 
with  some  touch  of  my  original  feeling.  liven 
benevolent  critics  may  ascribe  that  pleasure,  not 
to  tany  merit  in  the  writing,  but  to  the  associations 
connected    with    the    narratives.     Somehow,    in 


viii  Preface  to  First  Edition 

reading,  London  fogs  have  rolled  away,  and  I  have 
caught  glimpses  of  the  everglorious  Alps;  above 
the  chimney-pots  over  the  way  I  have  seen  the 
solemn  cliffs  of  the  Schreckhorn  and  the  Jungfrau. 
If  my  pages  could  summon  up  the  same  visions  to 
other  people  that  they  have  revealed  to  me,  they 
would  indeed  be  worth  reading.  As  it  is,  they 
may  perhaps  suggest  some  faint  shadows  of  those 
visions  to  fellow-labourers  in  the  same  field. 

Leslie  Stephen. 


[In  republishing  these  papers  of  a  young  gentle- 
man, whom  I  shall  regard  with  a  certain  interest, 
I  have  not  felt  myself  at  liberty  to  make  any 
serious  corrections.  He  would  possibly  have 
denied  the  force  of  some  critical  remarks  which 
to  me  appear  very  obvious;  and  I  do  not  know 
that  my  judgment  would  be  superior  to  his.  I 
have  therefore  left  all  faults  of  omission  and 
commission  in  the  republished  chapters.  I  have, 
however,  suppressed  two  chapters,  one  upon  the 
"Eastern  Carpathians,"  as  irrelevant,  and  one 
upon  "Alpine  Dangers,"  as  obsolete.  I  have 
substituted  for  them  three  papers,  written  at  a 
rather  later  period:  one  upon  the  "Col  des  Hiron- 
delles,"    from   the     Alpine    Journal;     and    two, 


Preface  to  First  Edition  ix 

"Sunset  on  Mont  Blanc,"  and  "The  Alps  in 
Winter,"  from  the  Comhill  'Magazine.  The 
last,  I  may  observe,  was  written  when  visits  to 
the  Alps  in  winter  were  much  less  common  than 
at  present. 

L.  S.] 


Contents 


Preface 


CHAPTER 


I. — The  Old  School 
II. — The  New  School 
III. — Ascent  of  the  Schreckhorn 
IV. — The  Rothhorx. 
V. — The  Eiger-Joch 
VI. — The  Jungfrau-Joch  . 
VII. — The  Viescher-Joch    . 
VIII. — The  Col  des  Hirondelles 
IX. — The  Baths  of  Saxta  Catarixa 
X. — The  Peaks  ok  Primiero 
XI. — Sunset  ox  Mont  Blanc 
XII. — The  Alps  ix  Winter 
XIII. — The  Regrets  or  a  Mouxtaixeer 


PAGE 
V 


I 
40 

79 
101 
129 

x57 

T75 
190 
218 

257 
292 

3J7 

344 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

The  Tamina  Gorge  at  Ragatz      .       Frontispiece 

View  of  Lucerne,  Showing  Pilatus  in  the 

Distance  ......        20 

Interlaken,  Showing  the  Jungfrau  in  the 

Distance  ......        38 

Mer  de  Glace,  Mont  Blanc  ...        48 

Railroad  at  the  Foot  of  the  Jungfrau         .        82 

Mount  Pilatus,  Showing  Hotel  Bellevue    .        96 
From  a  photograph  by  Sommers,  Naples 

The  Summit  of  the  Titlis     ....      104 

The  Summit  of  the  Matterhorn  .  .  .      140 

From  a  photograph  by  Sommers,  Naples 

rutli    and    urnersee lake    of   the    four 

Cantons    .  .  .  .  .  .  .176 

Saas  Fee      .......      204 

View  of  the  Wengern  Alp  ....      248 

Ascending  Mont  Blanc         ....      292 
From  a  photograph  by  Schroeder  &  Cie.,  Lucerne 

A  Farmhouse  ix  the  Bernese  Oberland        .      308 


xiv  Illustrations 

PAGE 

Lugano         .......      320 

From  a  photograph  by  Sommers,  Naples 

The  Staubbach,  Lauterbrunnen  .  .     342 

From  a  photograph  by  Sommers,  Naples 

The  Lake  of  Lucerne  ....     366 

From  a  photograph  by  Sommers,  Naples 


THE  PLAYGROUND  OF  EUROPE 


The   Playground   of  Europe 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  OLD  SCHOOL 


A  highly  intelligent  Swiss  guide  once   gazed 

with  me  upon  the  dreary  expanse  of  chimney-pots 

through  which  the  South- Western  Railway  escapes 

from    this    dingy    metropolis.     Fancying    that    I 

>i  rightly  interpreted  his  looks  as  symptomatic  of 

v 

«y  the  proverbial  homesickness  of  mountaineers,  I 
(  remarked  with  an  appropriate  sigh,  "That  is  not 
""■  so  fine  a  view  as  we  have  seen  together  from  the 
top  of  Mont  Blanc."  "Ah,  sir!"  was  his  pathetic 
reply,  "it  is  far  finer!"  This  frank  avowal  set  me 
thinking.  Were  my  most  cherished  prejudices 
folly,  or  was  my  favourite  guide  a  fool?  A 
question  not  to  1  >e  asked !  Yet  very  similar  shocks, 
as  has  often  been  remarked,  await  the  student  of 
early  Alpine  literature. 

Not  long  ago  1  took  up  a  queer  old  Swiss  guide- 
book, the  predecessor  of  the  long  line  of  similar 


2  The  Playground  of  Europe 

productions  which  have  culminated  in  Murra) , 
Baedeker,  and  Ball.  It  was  orginally  published 
in  1 7 13,  and  for  half  a  century  or  more  seems  to 
have  been  the  familiar  friend  of  the  travellers  who 
then  visited  the  district  of  which  it  treats.  It  is 
called  by  the  attractive  title  of  the  Delices  de  la 
Suisse;  but  the  author  is  a  little  startled  at  his 
own  presumption  in  using  so  ambitious  a  name. 
He  explains  that  it  is  merely  adopted  with  a  view  to 
a  series  of  similar  publications  referring  to  more 
unequivocally  delicious  countries.  In  truth,  he 
says,  "si  Ton  considere  les  Alpes  du  cote  de  leur 
hauteur  prodigieuse,  de  leurs  neiges  eternelles,  et 
de  l'incommodite  et  rudesse  des  chemins  qu'on  y 
trouve,  il  n'y  a  pas  beaucoup  de  delices  a  esperer.  " 
However,  in  spite  of  the  horrors  of  eternal  snow 
and  prodigious  height  and  steep  paths,  there  are 
many  attractions  to  be  f-ind  in  the  towns;  and 
the  wisdom  of  Providence  in  forming  mountains 
is  justified  by  certain  statistics  as  to  the  number 
of  cattle  supported  on  the  pasturages  and  the 
singular  crystals  to  be  found  in  the  rocks.  This 
was  indeed  a  favourite  argument  at  a  time  when 
the  doctrine  of  the  philosophic  Pangloss  was  so 
generally  popular.  Everything  must  be  for  the 
best  in  this  best  of  all  possible  worlds,  and  some 
final  cause  must  be  found  even  for  the  Alps. 
Another    contemporary    writer,    after    observing 


The  Old  School  3 

that  it  is  difficult  to  understand  why  the  Al- 
mighty should  have  raised  these  "great  excres- 
cences of  the  earth,  which  to  outward  appearance 
indeed  have  neither  use  nor  comeliness,  "  discovers 
a  similar  solution  of  the  enigma.  Not  only  are 
the  "hideous  rocks  of  the  Cevennes,  the  Vosges, 
and  the  Alps  "  useful  as  sending  down  rivers  to  the 
sea,  but  they  are  an  excellent  preserve  for  fur-bear- 
ing animals.  Thus  the  infidel  who  naturally 
regards  such  monstrosities  as  discreditable  to  the 
Architect  of  the  universe  is  satisfactorily  confuted ; 
and  by  calculating  the  number  of  cheeses  pro- 
duced in  Alpine  dairies  and  the  quantity  of  chamois 
leather  and  crystals  which  may  be  obtained  in  the 
mountain  fastnesses,  we  can  penetrate  the  hidden 
purposes  of  the  Creator  in  producing  such  hideous 
excrescences  as  the  Jungfrau  and  Mont  Blanc. 
It  is  true  that  this  trial  of  faith  is  somewhat  severe, 
and  that  the  explanation  seems  occasionally 
rather  to  break  down.  The  French  translator  of 
one  of  the  early  Swiss  travellers  has  a  very  short 
'.nd  conclusive  answer  to  the  ingenious  device  by 
vhich  his  author  proves  the  necessity  of  the  Alps. 
In  spite  of  this  special  pleading,  he  says,  it  cannot 
be  denied  that  France  gets  on  pretty  well  without 
everlasting  snows,  and  that  which  is  not  wanted 
in  France  can  certainly  not  be  essential  to  the  rest 
of  the  world.      If  this  gentleman  had  lived  in  the 


4  The  Playground  of  Europe 

days  when  the  French  frontier  crossed  the  summit 
of  Mont  Blanc  his  views  might  have  undergone  a 
change,  and  his  patriotism  have  no  longer  come 
into  conflict  with  his  piety.     Perhaps,  however, 
he  was  a  disciple  of  Voltaire,  and  had  a  general 
disrespect  for  final  causes.     In  all  the  ordinary 
books  we  find  much  the  same  explanation  of  the 
old  difficulty.     Fur-bearing  animals  and  cheeses 
and  crystals  are  the  missiles  with  which  the  un- 
lucky sceptic  is  overwhelmed,   and  the  ways  of 
Providence  satisfactorily  vindicated  to  mankind. 
Abandoning  the  discussion  of  such  inscrutable 
questions  as  little  suited  for  the  temper  of  the 
times,  it  is  rather  interesting  to  investigate  the 
state    of    mind    by   which   they   were    provoked. 
Why  should  the  Alps  be  treated  like  the  small- 
pox or  as  "a  Borgia  or  a  Catiline"' — as  shocking 
to  our  belief  in  a  beneficent  Providence?     What 
were  the  feelings  with  which  they  were  regarded 
when  theologians  treated  them  as  puzzling  phe- 
nomena, only  to  be  fully  explained  when  we  under- 
stood the  origin  of  evil?     That  explanation  about 
the  fur-bearing  animals  is  so  palpably  inadequate 
as  to  indicate  the  grievous  straits  in  which  the 
unfortunate   reasoner   must   have   found   himself 
confined.       Obviously     its    inventor     hated    the 
mountains  as  a  seasick  traveller  hates  the  ocean, 
though  he  may  feebly  remind  himself  that  it  is  a 


The  Old  School  5 

good  place  for  the  fish.  The  author,  however, 
of  the  Dcliccs  de  la  Suisse  rinds  one  or  two  more 
intelligible  consolations.  At  intervals  he  comes 
across  a  view  which  he  admits  to  be  pretty, 
almost,  as  it  would  seem,  in  spite  of  the  moun- 
tains. There  is,  for  example,  a  "fort  joli  aspect" 
from  the  terrace  at  Bcme,  and  he  admires  the 
lovely  coteaux  of  the  Pays  de  Vaud  as  seen  from  the 
Lake  of  Geneva,  though  he  has  not  a  word  for 
the  glorious  mountain  parapet  which  encloses 
the  opposite  shores.  In  this,  I  may  remark,  he 
coincides  rather  curiously  with  the  higher  author- 
ity of  Addison,  who  says,  speaking  of  the  terrace 
at  Bcme,  "There  is  the  noblest  summer  prospect 
in  the  world  from  this  walk,  for  you  have  a  full 
view  of  a  noble  range  of  mountains  that  lie  in  the 
country  of  the  Grisons,  and  are  buried  in  snow." 
The  geography  of  this  remark  is  singular,  but  the 
taste  is  unimpeachable.  That  Addison,  however, 
cannot  have  been  a  great  lover  of  snow  mountains 
seems  to  follow  from  his  comparison  between  the 
lakes  of  Constance  and  Geneva.  The  Lake  of 
Constance,  he  says,  "appears  more  beautiful  to 
the  eye,  but  wants  the  fruitful  fields  and  vineyards 
that  border  upon  the  other."  Why,  then,  should 
it  be  more  beautiful  to  the  eye?  The  only  obvious 
reason  is  that  it  is  not  bordered  by  the  wild  ranges 
of  Savoy,  which  he  must  apparently  have  reckoned 


6  The  Playground  of  Europe 

as  a  positive  disadvantage  to  its  rival.  In  a 
paper  in  the  Toiler,  the  snow  mountains  are 
treated  by  him  with  a  painful  degree  of  disrespect 
which  seems  to  countenance  this  conclusion. 
That  the  natives  have  winter  in  August,  and  that 
there  are  seven  wooden  legs  in  one  family,  seem 
to  be  the  only  remarks  which  Addison  brought 
back  from  the  "top  of  the  highest  mountain  in 
Switzerland."  The  Lake  of  Geneva  is  almost  a 
sacred  place  to  the  lover  of  mountain  scenery: 
whether  we  hail  it  as  the  first  introduction  to  the 
beauties  of  the  Alps  or  pay  them  our  last  farewell 
from  its  shores,  it  is  equally  incomparable;  its 
lovely  grouping  of  rock  and  hanging  meadow  and 
distant  snow  and  rich  lowland  and  breadth  of 
deep  blue  water  strikes  one  as  a  masterpiece 
in  some  great  gallery  of  exquisite  landscapes.  We 
now  look  upon  it,  or  ought  to  look  upon  it,  as 
tinged  with  poetical  associations  from  Rousseau 
and  Byron  ■ —  if  those  respectable  authors  have 
not  become  too  old-fashioned  for  the  modern 
generation.  But  its  own  intrinsic  merits  are  in- 
comparable, and  a  man  who  preserves  a  stolid 
indifference  in  face  of  such  a  scene  must  be,  one 
would  think,  of  the  essentially  pachydermatous 
order.  It  was  slow,  however,  in  making  its  way 
to  public  favour.  Perhaps  we  may  excuse  Bishop 
Burnet  for  taking  more  interest  in  the  theology 


The  Old  School  7 

than  in  the  scenery  of  Geneva.  He  seems  to  have 
glanced  at  the  mountains  with  considerable  dis- 
gust. He  looked  at  the  Mont  Maudit — as  Mont 
Blanc  was  then  expressively  named — and  was 
assured  by  a  certain  incomparable  mathematician 
that  it  was  two  miles  in  perpendicular  height ; 
and  after  meditating  a  little  upon  the  subject, 
remarks  that  "one  will  be  afterwards  apt  to 
imagine  that  these  cannot  be  the  primary  pro- 
ductions of  the  Author  of  Nature,  but  are  the 
vast  ruins  of  the  first  world  which  the  deluge  broke 
into  so  many  inequalities. "  Later  writers  gradu- 
ally awoke  to  its  charms.  Gibbon  admired, 
though  from  a  safe  distance,  the  noble  mountains 
of  Savoy,  which  looked  down  upon  him  on  the 
moonlight  night  wThen  he  put  the  last  stroke  to  the 
Decline  mid  Fall,  and  Voltaire  composed  a  few 
smart  lines  about 

ces  monts  sourcilleux 
Qui  pressent  les  enfers  et  qui  fendent  lcs  cieux, 

and  declared  that  "mon  lac  est  le  premier," 
principally  because  it  was  the  residence  of  the 
lofty  goddess  La  Liberte.  But  we  should  hardly 
look  either  to  Voltaire  or  to  Gibbon  for  any 
genuine  enthusiasm  in  presence  of  natural  sub- 
limity. From  Rousseau — the  first  man,  accord- 
ing to  Mr.  Carlyle  (though  the  expression  is  not 


8  The  Playground  of  Europe 

strictly  accurate),  who  said,  Come,  let  us  make  a 
description — we  might  expect  better  things;  and 
better  things  are  not  altogether  wanting.  Yet  it 
is  curious  to  find  in  one  of  St.-Preux's  set  de- 
scriptions just  the  same  peculiarity  which  we  have 
noticed  in  Addison.  That  enthusiastic  gentleman 
describes  the  head  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva  with  his 
usual  fluency.  He  points  out  to  Julie  the  mouth 
of  the  Rhone  and  the  "redans  of  the  mountains" ; 
but  his  great  point  is  the  comparison  between  the 
rich  and  charming  banks  of  the  Pays  de  Vaud  and 
the  barren  heights  of  the  Chablais.  The  moral  is, 
of  course,  that  freedom  has  produced  vineyards 
in  one  case  and  slavery  left  bare  rocks  in  the  other  ; 
and  would  seem  to  imply  that  even  Rousseau  had 
not  learnt  our  modern  admiration  for  barrenness 
on  its  own  account.  He  admired  the  mountains 
as  the  barriers  which  kept  luxury  from  corrupting 
the  simplicity  of  the  native,  and  in  some  passages 
he  expresses  what  may  be  taken  for  substantially 
the  modern  sympathy  with  savage  scenery;  but 
one  still  feels  an  uncomfortable  suspicion  that  his 
love  of  rocks  may  be  a  particular  case  of  his  love 
of  paradox.  He  admires  them,  we  may  fancy, 
precisely  because  they  are  hideous ;  the  mountains, 
like  the  noble  savage,  are  a  standing  protest 
against  the  sophisticated  modern  taste;  they  are 
bare  and  wild  and  repulsive,  but  at  any  rate  they 


The  Old  School  9 

have  not  taken  to  wearing  wigs  and  stays  and 
submitted  to  the  conventional  taste  of  the  cen- 
tury. To  love  them  is  a  proof  of  a  singular  in- 
dependence of  character,  which  is  admirable 
because  it  is  eccentric.  To  this,  however,  I  must 
presently  return.  Meanwhile,  by  way  of  ex- 
treme contrast  to  this  point  of  view,  we  may 
take  the  last  of  the  Tories,  to  whom  the  abuse  of 
luxury  was  meaningless  cant,  and  London  the 
centre  of  all  interest.  Dr.  Johnson  speculates 
after  his  fashion  upon  the  love  of  mountain 
scenery,  when  Boswell  has  succeeded  in  lugging 
him  into  the  wilds  of  the  Highlands.  He  gets  to 
a  place  such  as  a  "writer  of  romance  might  have 
been  delighted  to  feign,"  but  he  evidently  regards 
it  with  supreme  disgust.  He  thinks  with  fond 
regret  of  his  ideal  prospect  at  Charing  Cross, 
and  has  a  dim  conviction  that  he  is  rather  a  fool 
for  suffering  himself  to  be  dragged  at  the  tail  of  a 
Boswell  into  these  regions  of  bog  and  heather. 
However,  it  will  never  do  for  a  philosopher  to 
admit  that  he  has  made  a  mistake,  and  accordingly 
he  proceeds  to  moralise  in  this  fashion:  "It 
will  readily  occur. "  he  says,  "that  this  uniformity 
of  barrenness  can  afford  very  little  amusement  to 
the  traveller;  that  it  is  easy  to  sit  at  home  and 
conceive  rocks,  heaths,  and  waterfalls,  and  that 
these  journeys  are  useless  labours,  which  neither 


io  The  Playground  of  Europe 

impregnate  the  imagination  nor  inform  the  under- 
standing. "  That  is  obviously  the  genuine  John- 
sonese sentiment.  Why  was  he  not  sitting  in  the 
"Mitre"  "conceiving  rocks  and  heaths  and 
waterfalls"  enough  to  give  additional  zest  to  his 
comforts,  instead  of  dragging  his  ponderous  bulk 
into  this  "uniformity  of  barrenness"?  Of  course 
he  finds  a  reason  sufficient  to  save  his  philosophical 
character.  Such  regions,  he  says,  form  a  great 
part  of  the  earth's  surface,  and  he  that  has  never 
seen  them  must  be  unacquainted  with  one  of  the 
great  scenes  of  human  existence.  On  another 
occasion  his  reflections  have  a  similar  tinge.  He 
admits  that  he  has  entered  the  Highlands  by 
choice,  and  has  no  serious  cause  for  alarm;  yet 
the  thoughts  produced  by  the  "unknown  and 
untravelled  wilderness"  verge  upon  the  uncom- 
fortable. "The  phantoms  which  haunt  the  desert 
are  want  and  misery  and  danger;  the  evils  of 
dereliction  rush  upon  the  thoughts;  man  is  made 
unwillingly  acquainted  with  his  own  weakness; 
and  meditation  shows  him  how  little  he  can 
sustain,  how  little  he  can  perform." 

I  may  quote  a  more  curious  specimen  of  this 
simple-minded  abhorrence  of  mountains  from 
Johnson's  friend  Richardson.  One  of  the  char- 
acters in  Sir  Charles  Grandison  describes  a  passage 
of  the  Mont  Cenis.     He  describes  the  chaises-a- 


The  Old  School  u 

porteur  and  the  avalanches  with  great  interest;  he 
shudders  at  the  wind  called  "The  Tormenta, " 
which  blows  the  frozen  snow  into  his  face  and 
wounds  it  as  with  sharp-pointed  needles.  But  for 
the  scenery  he  has  no  words,  except  frank  ex- 
pressions of  horror.  He  contrasts  Savoy,  "equally 
noted  for  its  poverty  and  rocky  mountains, "  with 
the  smiling  fields  of  France,  and  admits  that  "his 
spirits  were  great  sufferers  by  the  change.  "  When 
he  arrives  at  Lans-le-bourg — a  place  which  for 
three  months  in  the  twelve  scarcely  sees  the  sun 
— he  declares  emphatically  that  "every  object 
which  here  presents  itself  is  excessively  miserable," 
and  indeed  falls  so  ill  that,  but  for  the  wonderful 
skill  and  kindness  of  the  inimitable  Sir  Charles,  he 
could  never  have  faced  the  terrible  passage  to 
Italy.  What  would  the  hero  of  a  modem  novel 
say  to  such  blasphemy  of  the  charms  of  mountain 
scenery? 

It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  a  human  being 
more  thoroughly  out  of  his  element  than  Dr. 
Johnson  on  a  mountain ;  and  Richardson  was  not 
much  better  qualified  for  the  position.  We  may 
pardon  them  for  expressing  frankly  sentiments 
which  a  considerable  number  of  modern  tourists 
might  probably  discover  at  the  bottom  of  their 
hearts.  Indeed,  there  is  a  good  deal  to  be  said 
for  their  opinions.     Is  there  not  something  rather 


12         The  Playground  of  Europe 

unnatural  in  the  modern  enthusiasm,  or  affecta- 
tion of  enthusiasm,  for ' '  uniformity  of  barrenness' '  ? 
Why  should  we  not  prefer  the  regions  which  are 
admirably  fitted  for  human  comfort  to  those  in 
which  life  must  be  a  continual  struggle?  Gold- 
smith, writing  from  Leyden,  speaks  contemptu- 
ously of  the  Scottish  scenery  from  which  he  had 
just  departed.  "There,"  he  says,  "hills  and 
rocks  intercept  every  prospect;  here  it  is  all  a 
continued  plain,"  and  very  much  the  better,  as 
he  seems  to  intimate,  for  the  absence  of  those  dis- 
agreeable excrescences.  Macaulay,  commenting 
upon  this  passage,  suggests  a  very  simple  explana- 
tion: comfort  and  security,  he  thinks,  have  more 
to  do  with  our  sense  of  beauty  than  "people  of 
romantic  dispositions"  are  disposed  to  admit. 
A  traveller  will  not  be  thrown  into  ecstasies  by 
natural  objects  which  threaten  him  with  actual 
danger — "by  the  gloomy  grandeur  of  a  pass  where 
he  finds  a  corpse  which  the  marauders  have  just 
stripped  and  mangled,  or  by  the  screams  of  those 
eagles  whose  next  meal  may  probably  be  on  his 
own  eyes!"  One  is  sometimes  inclined  to  ask,  Is 
not  this  beginning  at  the  Avrong  end?  Undoubt- 
edly the  scream  of  an  eagle  must  be  singularly 
unpleasant  when  it  acts  as  dinner-bell  to  a  meal 
of  which  you  are  the  piece  dc  resistance;  but  why 
should  it  be  pleasant  under  any  circumstances? 


The  Old  School  13 

The  problem  should  not  be  stated,  Why  did 
Goldsmith  (or  Addison,  or  Johnson)  hate  objeets 
which  made  him  uncomfortable  with  so  good 
reason?  but  Why  do  we  love  them?  At  any  rate, 
the  explanation  seems  to  be  incomplete.  Gold- 
smith could  see  Arthur's  Seat  and  the  Pentland 
hills  and  the  Firth  of  Forth — 

Whose  isles  upon  its  bosom  float 
Like  emeralds  chased  in  gold — 

and  all  the  neighbourhood  of  the  most  picturesque 
city  in  Europe  (I  do  not  insist  upon  the  accuracy 
of  the  expression)  as  easily  and  safely  as  the  weary 
flats  that  encircle  Leyden.  Why  did  he  not  ad- 
mire them?  To  notice  one  parallel  phenomenon, 
there  has  been  a  similar  change  in  modern  taste 
in  regard  to  objects  where  Lord  Macaulay's 
theory  is  obviously  inapplicable.  Gothic  archi- 
tecture, the  influence  of  which  is  in  many  respects 
analogous  to  that  of  mountain  scenery,  was  as 
accessible  in  the  eighteenth  century  as  it  is  in  the 
present  day.  There  was  no  more  danger  then 
than  now  of  the  cathedral  jackdaws  dining  off  the 
eyes  of  the  spectator,  or  of  any  worse  robbers  than 
elderly  vergers  lying  in  wait  for  sightseers.  Yet 
it  is  spoken  of  in  language  which  reminds  one 
forcibly  of  the  criticism  on  mountains.  Thus,  for 
example- — to  quote  from  a  writer  who  has  given 


M         The  Playground  of  Europe 

us  his  views  on  both  topics, — Bishop  Berkeley  was 
certainly  a  man  of  fine  taste  and  keen  sensibility. 
He  crossed  Mont  Cenis  on  New  Year's  Day,  1714, 
and  remarks,  first,  that  he  was  "put  out  of  humour 
by  the  most  horrible  precipices";  secondly,  that 
his  life  often  "depended  on  a  single  step";  and 
thirdly,  that  his  correspondent  had  much  better 
take  the  comparatively  safe  and  pleasant  route 
to  Italy  by  sea.  In  the  Minute  Philosopher, 
again,  he  has  occasion  to  propose  a  theory  of 
beauty.  The  Eastern  nations  and  the  Greeks,  he 
tells  us,  "naturally  ran  into  the  most  becoming 
dresses,  whilst  our  Gothic  gentry  have  never  yet 
had  the  luck  to  stumble  on  anything  that  was  not 
absurd  and  ridiculous."  Following  out  the  argu- 
ment, he  speaks  of  the  various  graces  of  Greek 
buildings,  in  all  of  which,  according  to  him, 
"beauty  ariseth  from  the  appearance  of  use  in  the 
imitation  of  natural  things  .  .  .  which  is  indeed 
the  grand  difference  between  Greek  and  Gothic 
architecture,  the  latter  being  fantastical  and  for 
the  most  part  founded  neither  in  nature  or  reason, 
necessity  or  use,  the  appearance  of  which  accounts 
for  all  the  beauty,  grace,  and  ornament  of  the 
other."  Thus  Berkeley  assumed  as  a  primary 
axiom,  needing  no  sort  of  proof,  that  Gothic 
architecture  was  naturally  devoid  of  beauty,  as 
indeed  Gothic  was  generally  used  in  that  age  as 


The  Old  School  15 

synonymous  with  barbarous,  or,  in  other  words, 
as  a  term  of  abuse,  whether  applied  to  manners 
or  to  buildings.  Not  to  dwell  upon  this,  it  is 
sufficient  to  remark  at  present  that  a  man  who 
could  cite  Westminster  Abbey  or  Salisbury 
Cathedral  as  a  specimen  of  simple  ugliness  might 
very  well  shudder  at  the  Alps.  The  second  party 
of  tourists  that  ever  visited  Chamouni  compared 
the  Aiguilles  to  the  spires  of  a  Gothic  church,  and 
the  comparison  has  become  as  hackneyed  as  other 
tourist  commonplaces.  The  cathedral  and  the 
granite  peaks  have  indeed  many  qualities  in 
common ;  the  grey  walls  have  caught  something  of 
the  solemn  gloom  of  the  mountain  cliff,  and  the 
fantastic  and  almost  grotesque  shapes  of  some 
of  the  rocky  pinnacles  rival  the  daring  visions  of 
mediaeval  architects.  Indeed,  it  is  scarcely  pos- 
sible to  describe  the  wildest  mountain  scenery 
without  the  use  of  architectural  metaphor;  and 
one  might  venture  to  predict  from  a  man's  taste 
in  human  buildings  whether  he  preferred  the 
delicate  grace  of  lowland  scenery  or  the  more 
startling  effects  only  to  be  seen  in  the  heart  of  the 
mountains.  It  may  fairly  be  inferred  that  men 
who  held  the  artistic  creed  of  the  eighteenth 
century  were  prevented  from  loving  the  sublime 
but  irregular  shapes  of  the  Alps  by  something 
more  than  the  inconveniences  or  the  dangers  of 


16         The  Playground  of  Europe 

travel.  The  mountains,  like  music,  require  not 
only  the  absence  of  disturbing  causes,  but  the 
presence  of  a  delicate  and  cultivated  taste.  Early 
travellers  might  perceive  the  same  objects  with 
their  outward  sense;  but  they  were  affected  as  a 
thoroughly  unmusical  person  is  affected  by  the 
notes  of  some  complex  harmony,  as  a  chaos  of 
unmeaning  sounds. 

We  require,  therefore,  to  penetrate  a  little 
farther  into  the  question.  I  have  spoken  hitherto 
of  sentiments  which  may  be  due  simply  to  the 
material  inconveniences  of  the  Alps.  They  were 
such  as  a  farmer  or  a  political  economist  might 
utter  from  the  purely  utilitarian  point  of  view. 
Mountains,  it  was  said,  showed  a  "uniformity  of 
barrenness";  and  patriots  replied  by  counting 
the  number  of  cows  they  could  feed.  The 
mountains  were  simply  species  of  the  great  genus 
desert.  An  economist  might  use  them  to  illustrate 
the  meaning  of  the  "margin  of  cultivation,  "  which 
creeps  gradually  up  their  flanks  as  rent  rises  in  the 
valleys.  But  the  simple  statements  that  bare 
rock  and  everlasting  snow  are  very  much  in  the 
way  of  an  enlightened  agriculturist,  and  highly 
inconvenient  to  roadmakers,  with  a  few  necessary 
amplifications,  will  pretty  well  sum  up  the  re- 
flections of  the  old-fashioned  guide-books.  There 
were,    however,    even    in    those   dark   ages,    some 


The  Old  School  17 

observers  who  could  see  in  the  Alps  more  than 
inconvenient  lumps  of  objectionable  matter;  men 
of  science  had  penetrated  their  recesses,  had 
hunted  for  rare  herbs  upon  their  slopes,  had  at- 
tempted to  account  for  glacier  motion,  and  had 
given,  as  they  imagined,  a  perfectly  satisfactory 
account  of  the  origin  of  the  mountains  themselves. 
It  is  interesting  to  see  what  were  the  first  im- 
pressions of  those  who  surmounted  their  natural 
terror  or  disgust,  and  gave  some  descriptions  of 
the  more  striking  phenomena  which  they  ob- 
served. A  few  notes  from  some  of  the  earlier 
writers  will  help  to  illustrate  their  state  of  mind. 
In  the  Delices  de  la  Suisse — to  return  for  a 
moment  to  that  excellent  work — there  is  a  picture 
which  may  catch  the  eye  of  the  hasty  reader.  It 
appears  at  first  sight  to  represent  a  croquet-ball. 
The  two  poles  are  dark,  but  a  lighter  zone  runs 
round  the  equator,  and  is  marked  by  certain 
singular  figures  something  like  the  astronomical 
sign  of  Pisces.  And  thereby  hangs  a  tale- — and 
a  very  remarkable  one.  The  object  in  question 
was  the  chief  ornament  of  a  museum  at  Lucerne, 
and  for  aught  I  know  may  still  be  visible  there  to 
enterprising  travellers.  One  of  the  earlier  Swiss 
travellers,  Scheuchzer  by  name,  declares  in  a  fine 
glow  of  enthusiasm  that  there  is  nothing  like  it 
"in    regum,    principum,    privatorumquc   museis. " 


1 8         The  Playground  of  Europe 

Scheuchzer,  who  made  several  tours  from  1702 
to  1 7 1 1 ,  was  a  man  of  some  real  scientific  acquire- 
ments, especially  as  a  botanist;  he  invented  a 
theory  of  glacier  motion,  which  at  any  rate  opened 
an  interesting  question ;  some  of  his  journals  were 
published  at  the  expense  of  the  Royal  Society  of 
London,  and  two  of  the  quaint  illustrations  are 
dedicated  to  Sir  Isaac  Newton.  He  represents 
the  intellectual  stage  at  which  a  growing  scepticism 
has  made  a  compromise  with  old-fashioned 
credulity.  His  rule,  and  it  is  a  very  convenient 
one,  is  always  to  believe  half  of  what  he  is  told. 
For  example,  he  does  not  believe  that  any  chamois 
possess  the  quality  of  "impenetrabilitas,"  i.e. 
to  musket-shots;  but  thinks  that  some  of  them 
must  have  an  abnormal  toughness  of  constitution, 
probably  due  to  the  bezoars  sometimes  found  in 
their  intestines.  In  regard,  however,  to  this 
marvellous  stone,  he  throws  aside  his  scepticism 
in  favour  of  unqualified  faith.  It  is,  in  fact, 
nothing  less  than  a  draconita  or  dragon-stone, 
and  the  rarity  of  such  an  object  may  be  inferred 
from  the  most  approved  process  of  obtaining  it. 
You  must  first  catch  a  dragon  asleep,  then  scatter 
soporific  herbs  about  him  (which,  as  Scheuchzer 
admits,  has  a  fabulous  sound),  and  then  cut  the 
stone  out  of  his  head,  which,  however,  will  be 
spoilt  if  he  wakes  during  the  process.     Consider- 


The  Old  School  19 

ing  the  extreme  difficulty  of  securing  all  these 
conditions,  it  must  be  held  as  fortunate  that  in 
this  instance  the  stone  was  dropped  promiscuously 
by  a  flying  dragon  and  picked  up  by  a  passing 
peasant.  The  authenticity  of  the  stone  is  proved 
by  several  arguments:  as,  first,  a  dishonest  man 
would  never  have  invented  so  simple  a  story,  but 
would  rather  have  produced  some  marvellous 
tale  about  its  coming  from  the  farthest  Indies; 
secondly,  there  are  various  depositions  of  the 
finder  and  his  family;  and,  thirdly,  the  stone 
not  only  cures  simple  haemorrhages  (which  it 
might  have  done  if  composed  of  simple  jasper 
or  marble)  but  dysenteries  and  fevers,  and  a 
catalogue  of  more  terrible  complaints  than  were 
ever  relieved  by  Hollo  way's  Pills.  Scheuchzer 
then  brings  forward  a  quantity  of  corroborative 
evidence  as  to  the  existence  of  dragons.  There 
is,  indeed,  a  strong  a  priori  probability  that  in 
regions  so  wild  and  full  of  caves  as  the  Rhaetian 
Alps  dragons  must  exist;  but  more  direct  testi- 
mony is  not  wanting  and  generally  conforms  to 
one  type.  Some  "vir  quidam  probus"  comes 
home  in  the  evening  with  a  swimming  in  the 
head  and  a  marked  uncertainty  about  the  motions 
of  his  legs.  He  attributes  these  unprecedented 
phenomena  to  the  influence  of  the  dragon 
who  encountered  him    in    the    forest.     From   his 


20         The  Playground  of  Europe 

description  an  accurate  portrait  of  the  dragon  is 
composed.  The  remarkable  thing  about  these 
diagrams  is  the  singular  variety  of  type  in  the 
genus  dragon.  There  are  scaly  dragons  and 
slimy  dragons,  dragons  with  wings  and  feet,  two- 
legged  and  four-legged  dragons,  and  at  times 
dragons  with  neither  wings  nor  legs,  but  with 
objectionable  heads  and  semi-human  faces  of  an 
expression  at  once  humorous  and  malignant. 
Scheuchzer  divides  these  dragons  by  a  scientific 
classification,  and  is  puzzled  by  the  question 
whether  the  crest  is  to  be  taken  as  a  specific 
distinction  or  is  merely  characteristic  of  the  male 
or  (should  we  say?)  the  cock  dragon.  At  any 
rate  "satis  superque  constat"  that  there  are 
dragons  which  differ  from  serpents  in  seven 
respects;  amongst  which  it  may  be  mentioned 
that  they  breathe  so  hard  as  to  draw  in  not 
merely  air  but  the  birds  flying  above  them. 

Half  a  century  before  Scheuchzer.  or  about  1 666, 
the  Alps  were  visited  by  the  learned  Jesuit  Kircher, 
and  it  is  rather  amusing  to  compare  their  views. 
Kircher  believes,  as  becomes  his  cloth  and  his 
period,  in  various  stories  which  Scheuchzer 
summarily  puts  down  amongst  "anilia  delira- 
menta. "  On  dragons  he  is  specially  emphatic. 
A  certain  "clarissimus  vir, "  Herr  Schorer,  had 
seen  with  his  own  eyes  a  fiery  dragon,  which  flew 


The  Old  School  21 

across  the  Lake  of  Lucerne  from  Mount  Pilate, 
emitting  sparks  like  an  anvil,  and  indeed  strongly 
resembling  a  meteor  to  less  experienced  ob- 
servers. Nay,  Ivirchcr  is  bound  by  his  respect 
for  the  Church — though  not  without  a  word  or 
two  of  hinted  suspicion — to  believe  in  a  legend 
which  is  preserved  by  a  public  notice  in  the 
church  of  St.  Leodegarius  in  Lucerne.  It  tells 
how  a  man  passed  some  months  in  a  cave  with 
two  dragons,  who  were  either  naturally  amiable 
or  were  calmed  by  his  energetic  appeals  to  the 
Virgin,  and  finally  escaped  by  holding  on  to  their 
tails  when  they  ilew  away  after  their  period  of 
hibernation.  Dragons,  it  is  plain,  still  flapped 
their  gigantic  wings  across  every  retired  gorge 
and  haunted  all  the  inaccessible  caves  of  the  Alps; 
and  if  any  one  doubts  it,  he  must  reckon  with 
Gesncrus,  Cysatus,  and  the  learned  Stumphius. 
Indeed,  they  seem  to  have  been  almost  as  com- 
mon as  Ldmmcrgeicr.  Kircher  has  still  more 
marvellous  anecdotes  to  relate.  Pie  was  evi- 
dently a  good  mountaineer,  and  made  the  ascent 
of  Pilatus,  upon  which  Scheuchzer  failed  "  partim 
propter  corporis  lassitudinem,  partim  propter 
longinquitatem  via'  adhuc  metiendac";  causes 
which,  though  seldom  so  frankly  acknowledged, 
have  hindered  a  good  many  ascents  before  and 
since.      Devils,  ]  iennies,  and  cobolds  still  lingered 


22  The  Playground  of  Europe 

like  the  relics  of  primaeval  populations,  slowly 
decaying  before  the  advance  of  civilisation.  On 
Pilate,  Kircher  saw  the  lake  to  which  the  devil 
drags  Pilate  every  Good  Friday  to  inflict  an  an- 
nual punishment.  He  was  disappointed  at  finding 
it  only  a  yard  and  a  half  in  depth,  but  was  gratified 
by  discovering  certain  suspicious  footsteps  in  the 
snow,  which  might  or  might  not  have  been  those 
of  the  diabolical  visitant.  On  this,  as  on  some 
other  points,  he  leans  towards  a  qualified  scep- 
ticism, and  thinks  that  most  of  the  damitnculi  of 
which  he  speaks  were  due  to  the  credulity  of 
the  peasantry.  Once,  however,  he  had  a  more 
startling  adventure.  He  was  climbing  the  Mons 
Arnus  in  Unterwalden,  in  search  of  a  gold-bearing 
cave.  As  he  approached  the  mouth,  there  issued 
from  it  a  confused  hubbub  as  of  human  voices, 
though  no  being  of  mortal  flesh  and  blood  could 
have  been  within  some  miles.  Poor  Kircher 
narrowly  escaped  being  hurled  to  the  bottom, 
"like  Sisyphus,"  as  he  puts  it,  and  we  may  fancy 
returned  to  the  nearest  village  with  his  appetite 
for  gold-bearing  caves  considerably  damped.  I 
will  only  add  that,  in  regard  to  dragons,  Kircher 
had  an  hypothesis  to  explain  the  variety  in  struc- 
ture upon  which  I  have  already  remarked.  The 
dragon,  he  thought,  was  the  result  of  spontaneous 
generation.     Eagles  left  the  carcases  of  their  prey 


The  Old  School  23 

to  decay  in  the  neighbourhood  of  their  eyries,  and 
from  these  savoury  hotbeds  of  corruption  there 
would  natural!}"  arise  dragons  partaking  in  various 
proportions  of  the  peculiarities  of  the  animals 
whose  carcases  happened  to  form  the  delectable 
compost. 

The  Alps,  then,  were  still  haunted,  even  in  the 
days  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  by  portentous  dragons. 
At  a  rather  earlier  period  they  had  afforded 
shelter  to  goblins  and  devils  of  still  more  porten- 
tous nature.  These  picturesque  beings  disap- 
peared before  the  early  dawn  of  science,  much  as 
the  natives  of  Tasmania  have  disappeared  before 
the  English  immigrants.  It  is  only  another  stage 
in  the  process  described  in  Milton's  lines' — 

From  haunted  spring  and  dale, 

Edged  with  poplar  pale, 

The  parting  genius  is  with  sighing  sent. 

The  old  gods  of  the  woods  and  the  streams  were 
degraded,  as  we  know,  into  demons;  and  their  last 
descendants  seem  to  have  been  the  wretched 
d&munculi  who  lingered  in  Kircher's  imagination. 
The  dragons,  as  having  a  quasi-scientific  existence 
and  having  left  at  least  one  tangible  token  of  their 
presence  in  the  museum  at  Lucerne,  lingered  yet 
a  little  longer;  but  they,  with  much  that  was 
more  beautiful,  fled  before  the  earliest   approach 


24  The  Playground  of  Europe 

of  the  tourist.  Not  the  vestige  of  a  dragon  is 
now  to  be  found,  even  in  those  wildest  regions  of 
the  Alps  which,  according  to  Scheuchzer,  were 
specially  adapted  for  their  generation,  and  which 
are  now  thronged  and,  as  some  think,  desecrated 
by  the  bathing  guests  at  St.  Moritz.  Fairies  and 
elves,  and  other  symbols  by  which  people  once 
interpreted  to  themselves  the  awe  and  wonder 
produced  by  natural  scenery,  have  died  too 
thoroughly  even  for  poetical  purposes.  How 
much  will  go  with  them?  and  how  far  will 
the  same  process  applied  in  other  directions 
destroy  the  beauty  and  the  romance  of  our  daily 
lives? 

Old  travellers  saw  a  mountain  and  called  it 
simply  a  hideous  excrescence;  but  then  they 
peopled  it  with  monsters  and  demons;  gnomes 
wriggled  through  its  subterranean  recesses;  mys- 
terious voices  spoke  in  its  avalanches ;  dragons 
winged  their  way  across  its  gorges ;  the  devil  haled 
the  ghosts  of  old  sinners  to  its  lakes  to  be  tor- 
mented; the  wild  huntsman  issued  from  its  deep 
ravines;  and  possibly  some  enchanted  king  sat 
waiting  for  better  days  in  a  mysterious  hall 
beneath  its  rocks.  Was  not  this  merely  express- 
ing in  another  way  the  same  sense  of  awe  which 
we  describe  by  calling  the  mountain  itself  sublime 
and    beautiful?     The    sentiment    was    projected 


The  Old  School  25 

into  these  external  images,  but  in  substance  it 
may  have  been  much  the  same;  and  every  legend 
which  floats  round  these  noble  peaks  shows  as 
distinctly  as  the  ravings  of  the  modem  enthusiast 
how  much  they  impress  the  imagination.  When 
the  machinery,  as  old  critics  used  to  call  it,  has 
finally  decayed  and  dropped  to  pieces,  the  feelings 
to  which  its  rise  was  due  may  still  survive,  and 
we  may  admire  nature  equally  or  possibly  more 
when  the  beings  by  which  we  accounted  to  our- 
selves for  our  admiration  have  ceased  to  exist 
even  in  fancy. 

At  the  period,  however,  of  which  I  am  speaking, 
dragons  and  goblins  were,  so  to  speak,  at  the  fag 
end  of  their  existence.  They  had  received  notice 
to  quit  and  were  submitting  without  serious  op- 
position. For  a  short  time  there  was  a  struggle 
between  scepticism  and  faith,  which  is  rather  odd 
to  observe.  Sensible  men  of  course  took  a  middle 
path  and  admitted  that  many  dragons  were  the 
fictions  of  credulous  peasants,  and  perhaps  even  a 
mythical  way  of  describing  waterfalls  (that  is  one 
of  Seheuchzer's  suggestions),  but  they  would 
not  fly  to  the  ridiculous  extreme  of  abandoning 
their  dragons  altogether.  They  made  a  judicious 
compromise  and  tried  to  reconcile  the  conclusions 
of  faith  and  science.  It  is  evident  that  some 
mental  effort  was  necessarv   to  belief.     When  it, 


26  The  Playground  of  Europe 

comes  to  classifying  dragons  and  dividing  them 
into  scientific  species  ("dracones,"  says  one 
traveller  in  1680,  "in  non  alatos  et  alatos  divide- 
mus,  illosque  in  apodes  et  pedatos  subdividemus  "), 
we  feel  that  their  days  are  doomed ;  and  it  is  at  this 
period  when  the  old  romance  is  finally  slain  and 
science  has  not  as  yet  created  a  new  interest  for 
itself  that  the  mountains  would  naturally  be  most 
prosaic.  Yet  there  was  already  a  beginning  of 
better  things.  Kircher,  for  example,  had  taken 
to  mountain  exploration  from  his  extreme  interest 
in  an  explosion  of  Vesuvius,  and  was  eager  to 
solve  the  curious  problems  which  they  presented. 
The  mountains  were  already  interesting  in  his  eyes 
and  from  that  it  is  a  short  step  to  their  becoming 
beautiful.  His  explanation,  indeed,  admits  that 
their  occasional  beauty  is  a  kind  of  supplementary 
cause  of  their  existence.  There  are,  it  appears, 
five  main  reasons  for  the  existence  of  mountains: 
first,  they  serve  as  chains  to  bind  the  earth  to- 
gether, or  as  the  bones  or  skeleton  of  the  world, 
which  is  illustrated  by  elaborate  diagrams; 
secondly,  they  resist  the  destructive  action  of  the 
sea;  thirdly,  they  make  rivers,  and  to  illustrate 
this  he  treats  us  to  singular  diagrams,  showing 
how  the  Alps  and  other  mountain  chains  are 
simply  lids  to  vast  cisterns  of  water — " hydrophy- 
laciae, "  as  he  calls  them — from  which  the  rivers 


The  Old  School  27 

are  somehow  pumped  up ;  fourthly,  they  restrain 
the  wind  and  protect  plants;  and,  fifthly,  they 
produce  mines.  To  this  he  adds  cursorily,  and, 
as  it  were,  rather  ashamed  of  so  trifling  a  reason, 
"non  dicam  hie  de  amcenitate  prospectus,  de 
utilitate  quam  umbra  sua  in  subjectis  agrorum 
planis  vallibusque  conferunt, "  etc.  So  that  the 
mountains  were  not  quite  without  their  charms. 
The  most  striking  passage,  however,  upon  this 
subject  occurs  in  Burnet's  Sacred  Theory  of 
the  Earth,  which  in  the  beginning  of  the  eight- 
eenth century  was,  as  Waterland  tells  us,  a 
text-book  for  geological  students  at  Cambridge. 
People  in  those  days  fancied,  as  people  generally 
fancy  when  they  catch  sight  for  the  first  time  of  a 
new  problem,  that  it  was  far  easier  and  simpler 
than  was  actually  the  case ;  they  did  not  know  till 
experience  taught  them  how  painfully  they  would 
be  compelled  to  advance  from  step  to  step,  and 
to  unravel  the  intricate  chain  of  causes  which 
have  gone  to  bring  the  earth  into  its  present  shape ; 
and  still  less  how  one  principal  result  of  the  en- 
quiry would  be  to  prove  that  the  most  interesting 
questions  lay  outside  the  reach  of  human  know- 
ledge. With  the  Book  of  Genesis  for  their  author- 
ity, a  happy  faculty  of  guessing  to  eke  out  any 
deficiencies  of  information,  and  a  few  inferences 
from  the  Newtonian  theories  to  produce  a  scientific 


28  The  Playground  of  Europe 

tinge,  they  thought  that  the  whole  thing  would  be 
explained. 

Burnet's  view  was  that  the  earth  resembled 
a  gigantic  egg,  the  shell  representing  the  super- 
ficial crust,  the  white  of  the  egg  the  subterranean 
waters,  and  the  yolk  the  central  core.  When  the 
fountains  of  the  great  deep  were  broken  up  the 
shell  was  shivered,  the  waters  drowned  mankind 
and  then  retired  into  the  present  sea,  leaving  the 
fragments  to  form  the  mountain  ranges.  The 
conclusions  thus  obtained  as  to  the  past  and  the 
probable  future  of  the  world  coincided  in  the 
most  charming  way  with  the  Book  of  Genesis  and 
the  Apocalypse,  and  they  are  enforced  with 
abundant  eloquence,  if  with  a  rather  short  allow- 
ance of  reason.  I  quote  part  of  the  poetical 
passage  in  which  Burnet  describes  how  he  was 
first  induced  to  approach  so  tremendous  a  sub- 
ject.    He  says: 

The  greatest  objects  of  nature  are,  methinks,  the 
most  pleasing  to  behold;  next  to  the  great  concave  of 
the  heavens,  and  those  boundless  regions  which  the 
stars  inhabit,  there  is  nothing  that  I  look  upon  with 
more  pleasure  than  the  vide  sea  and  the  mountains  of 
the  earth.  There  is  something  august  and  stately  in 
the  air  of  these  things,  that  inspires  the  mind  with 
great  thoughts  and  passions.  We  do  naturally,  upon 
such  occasions,  think  of  God  and  Tlis  greatness;  what- 
ever hath  but  a  shadow  and  appearance  of  die  Infinite. 
as  all  things  have  thai   arc  too  big  for  our  compre- 


The  Old  School  29 

hension,  and  fill  and  overbear  the  mind  with  their 
excess,  cast  it  into  a  pleasing  kind  of  stupor  and 
admiration.  And  yet  these  mountains  that  we  are 
speaking  of,  to  confess  the  truth,  are  nothing  but 
great  ruins,  but  such  as  show  a  certain  magnificence  of 
nature :  as  from  the  temples  and  broken  amphitheatres 
of  the  Romans,  we  collect  the  greatness  of  that  people. 
But  the  grandeur  of  a  nation  is  less  sensible  to  those 
who  never  saw  the  remains  and  monuments  they  have 
left,  and  those  who  never  see  the  mountainous  parts 
of  the  earth  scarce  ever  reflect  upon  the  causes  of 
them  or  what  power  in  nature  could  be  sufficient  to 
produce  them. 

Burnet  proceeds  to  say  that  when  he  crossed 
the  Alps  and  Apennines,  the  "sight  of  those  vast 
undigested  heaps  of  stone  did  so  strike  my  fancy 
that  I  was  not  easy  till  I  could  give  myself  some 
tolerable  account  of  how*  that  confusion  came  in 
nature. "  He  imagines  a  sleeper  suddenly  trans- 
ported from  the  plains,  and  paints  his  astonish- 
ment on  waking  to  see  "such  vast  bodies  thrown 
together  in  confusion." 

Look  upon  these  great  ranges  [he  exclaims],  in  what 
confusion  do  they  lie;  they  have  neither  form  nor 
beauty,  neither  shape  nor  order,  no  more  than  the 
clouds  in  the  air.  Then  how  barren,  how  desolate, 
how  naked  art'  they!  How  they  stand  neglected  by 
nature!  Neither  the  rains  can  soften  them  nor  the 
dews  from  heaven  can  make  them  fruitful. 

After    insisting    'm     the  chaotic  disorder  of   the 


so         The  Playground  of  Europe 

Alps,  he  says  that  if  you  could  get  within  the 
mountains, 

for  they  are  generally  hollow,  you  would  find  all  things 
there  more  rude,  if  possible,  than  without.  .  .  .  No 
tempest  nor  earthquake  could  put  things  in  more 
disorder.  'T  is  true  they  cannot  look  as  ill  now  as 
they  did  at  first.  The  ruin  that  is.  fresh  looks  much 
worse  than  afterwards  when  the  earth  grows  dis- 
coloured and  skinned  over,  but  I  fancy  if  we  had  seen 
the  mountains  when  they  were  new-born  and  raw, 
when  the  earth  was  first  broken  and  the  waters  of 
the  deluge  newly  retired,  the  fractions  and  confusions 
of  them  would  have  appeared  very  ghastly  and 
frightful. 

This  passage  gives  a  very  striking  account  of  the 
influence  of  mountains  in  that  day  upon  a  highly 
imaginative  observer.  They  resembled  vast  ruins, 
not  so  ghastly  and  frightful  as  of  old,  because  their 
deformities  have  been  partially  skinned  over,  yet 
still  without  form  or  beauty,  huge  chaotic  frag- 
ments of  the  tremendous  catastrophe  that  once 
shook  the  earth  to  its  foundations,  and  yet,  from 
the  fact  that  they  spoke  so  forcibly  of  that  in- 
conceivable exhibition  of  power,  intensely  inter- 
esting and  suggestive  of  elevating  thoughts.  He 
felt  like  a  man  coming  upon  the  ruins  of  an  imperial 
city,  just  sacked  by  barbarians,  with  remnants 
of  its  former  splendour  lying  heaped  in  hideous 
confusion,  yet  carrying  the  mind  back  to  the 
days  when  they  were  perfect.     The  same  thought 


The  Old  School  31 

is  expressed  in  Scott's  lines  about  Ben  venue, 
whose 

Knolls,  crags,  and  mounds  confusedly  hurled, 
Seemed  fragments  of  an  earlier  world. 

Only  Scott  is  content  to  play  with  the  fancy  which 
Burnet  puts  forward  with  all  the  seriousness  of  a 
scientific  enquirer.  Think  of  the  mountains  as, 
in  sober  earnestness,  ruins  of  the  antediluvian 
world,  and  the}'  are  really  terrible.  When  they 
have  declined  into  the  romantic  stage  the  same 
expression  is  merely  a  lively  image  of  their  ap- 
parent chaos.  At  a  later  period  they  gain  an 
interest  of  a  different  order,  when  the  mounds  are 
indicative  of  the  action  of  ancient  glacial  forces 
and  every  rock  speaks  to  the  observer  of  the  slow 
lapse  of  geological  periods. 

From  this,  I  think,  wc  may  deduce  a  few  ob- 
vious conclusions  as  to  the  different  temper  with 
which  the  mountains  were  then  regarded.  Macau- 
lay's  theory  obviously  contains  much  truth, 
though  not  the  whole  truth.  The  Alps,  indeed, 
were  visited  without  much  fear  of  robbers  or  of 
eagles  in  the  eighteenth  century.  Every  young 
gentleman  crossed  them  in  making  the  grand 
tour,  and  no  worse  incidents  are  recorded  that  I 
know  of  than  the  slaughter  of  Horace  Walpole's 
lapdog  by  a  wolf.  But  in  a  wider  sense  there  was 
precisely  the  same  difference  between  our  view  of 


32  The  Playground  of  Europe 

Alpine  scenery  then  and  now,  as  between  the 
American  backwoodsman's  hatred  of  a  tree  and 
that  passionate  regard  for  trees  which  people 
entertain  who  live  in  dread  of  economical  officials 
and  grasping  landlords.  Ice  is  a  nuisance  in 
Greenland  and  an  inestimable  luxury  at  Calcutta, 
and  we,  who  are  pent  for  ten  months  of  the  year 
in  a  crowd  of  three  million  cockneys,  love  our 
remaining  playgrounds  of  fresh  air  and  unen- 
closed pasture  as  naturally  as  men  hated  them 
whose  lives  were  a  daily  battle  with  the  wilderness. 
Mountains  were  once  the  main  fortresses  of  the 
tyrannical  powers  of  nature ;  now  they  are  the  last 
strongholds  in  which  unsophisticated  nature  holds 
out:  it  is  not  surprising  that  our  sentiments  have 
changed.  But  we  must  add,  if  we  would  under- 
stand the  precise  nature  of  the  change,  some  of 
the  considerations  which  I  have  endeavoured  to 
suggest. 

The  judgment  passed  on  mountain  scenery  in 
different  generations  would,  I  imagine,  curiously 
illustrate  the  relation  between  the  poetical  and  the 
scientific  stage  of  thought  characteristic  of  any 
given  period.  When  science  had  exorcised  the 
dcEmuncidi,  the  mountains  were  left,  like  Burnet's 
unskinned  ruins,  bare  of  imaginary  beings,  and 
not  yet  covered  by  the  complicated  network  of 
associations  which  has  been  gradually  produced 


The  Old  School  33 

by  a  closer  observation  of  their  details.  To  repro- 
duce the  mountains  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  years 
back  we  must  begin  by  emptying  our  idea  of 
nearly  everything  which  gives  them  interest. 
The  same  picture  was  painted  upon  the  retina  of 
Addison  when  he  stood  on  the  terrace  of  Berne, 
and  of  the  modern  observer  who  follows  in  his 
footsteps.  But  when  we  compare  the  significance 
to  the  mind  of  the  two  spectacles,  it  is  the  differ- 
ence between  the  vague  blue  films  in  the  back- 
ground of  an  ignorant  painter  and  the  photograph 
with  all  its  infinite  variety  of  detail.  One  man 
saw  nothing  but  a  flat  surface  bounded  by  an 
irregular  jagged  line;  to  the  other,  every  minute 
fragment  of  the  picture  has  a  story  and  a  language 
of  its  own.  Mr.  Ruskin  has  expounded  at  great 
length  and  with  admirable  acuteness  the  differ- 
ence between  the  fulness  of  meaning  in  a  mountain 
as  drawn  by  Turner  and  the  vague  shapeless 
lumps  of  earlier  artists.  The  mountains  are  now 
intensely  real  and,  so  to  speak,  alive  to  their  fin- 
gers' ends;  they  began  by  being  empty  metaphys- 
ical concepts,  and  the  difference  is  simply  due  to 
the  fact  that  nobody  had  then  taken  the  trouble 
to  look  at  them,  and  that  a  great  many  highly 
skilled  observers  have  been  working  at  them  very 
carefully  ever  since  and  have  added  their  impres- 
sions to  the  existing  slock.     The  hasty  and  inac- 


34         The  Playground  of  Europe 

curate  outline  has  been  slowly  filled  up  by  the 
labours  of  successive  generations,  and  they  have 
come  into  contact  with  our  sympathies  at  an 
incomparably  greater  number  of  points. 

Now,  it  is  plain  that  the  big  chaotic  lumps  which 
existed  in  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century 
were  comparatively  useless  for  poetical  purposes. 
Burnet  has  perhaps  made  the  best  of  them  in  the 
passage  I  have  quoted.  There  is  something 
impressive  about  his  picture  of  the  ruins  of  an 
earlier  world.  But,  to  say  nothing  of  the  un- 
reality of  the  hypothesis,  it  is  too  summary  and 
simple  a  mode  of  explanation.  It  takes  us  into 
the  most  unpoetical  sphere  of  metaphysics,  and 
rather  stops  enquiry  than  suggests  fresh  trains  of 
thought. 

Finally,  it  may  be  noticed  that  the  contem- 
poraries of  Newton  had  an  uncomfortably  mathe- 
matical way  of  looking  at  such  problems.  They 
thought  that  as  the  earth's  orbit  was  a  respectable 
ellipse,  the  earth  itself  should  have  been  a  neat 
oblate  spheroid ;  and  any  irregularity  in  figure 
was  rather  discreditable  than  otherwise — perhaps, 
as  Whiston  argued,  was  in  some  way  connected 
with  the  fall  of  man. 

We  might  trace  the  reflection  of  these  views  in 
poetry,  except  that  the  poets  had  then  so  little 
to  say  of  the  mountains,  or  indeed  of  any  natural 


The  Old  School  35 

objects.  When,  at  a  later  period,  men  of  science 
were  prying  into  every  detail  of  Alpine  scenery, 
poets  were  simultaneously  looking  at  them  with  a 
fresh  interest.  When  Saussure  had  been  speculat- 
ing on  the  causes  of  glacier  motion,  Shelley  spoke 
of  the  glaciers  which  creep 

Like   snakes  that    watch  their  prey  from   their   far 

fountains, 
Slow  rolling  on; 

and  Bryon  told  how  the 

Glacier's  cold  and  restless  mass 
Moves  onwards  day  by  day. 

Erratic  blocks  were  objects  of  a  poetical  as  well 
as  of  a  scientific  treatment.  Wordsworth  de- 
scribes his  leech-gatherer  as  standing 

As  a  huge  stone  is  sometimes  seen  to  lie 
Couched  on  the  bald  top  of  an  eminence, 
Wonder  to  all  that  do  the  same  espy, 
By  what  means  it  could  thither  come  and  whence, 
So  that  it  seems  a  thing  endued  with  sense, 
Like  a  sea  beast  crawled  forth,  which  on  a  shelf 
Of  rock  or  sand  reposeth  there  to  sun  itself. 

Wordsworth,  Byron,  and  Shelley  had  evidently 
observed  the  rocks  and  the  ice  with  an  interest 
as  keen  as  that  of  Saussure,  though  they  turned 
their  observations  to  a  different  account.  But 
what  was  a  poor  poet  to  do  with  the  shapeless 
inorganic   lumps   of   matter   which   did   duty   for 


36  The  Playground  of  Europe 

mountains  to  a  former  generation?  We  may 
find  one  or  two  feeble  attempts  to  hitch  them 
into  verse.  Young,  for  example,  of  the  Night 
Thoughts,  took  it  into  his  head  to  improve  some 
of  the  celebrated  descriptions  in  Job ; 1  but  he 
mentions  with  some  pride  that  the  passage  about 
mountains  is  entirely  his  own.  This  is  the  whole 
of  it: 

Who  heaved  the  mountain,  which  sublimely  stands 
And  casts  its  shadow  into  distant  lands? 

For  a  more  elaborate  treatment  we  may  go  to 
Pope,  and  quote  a  once  celebrated  passage  in  the 
Essay  on  Criticism: 

So  pleased  at  first,  the  tow'ring  Alps  we  try, 
Mount  o'er  the  vales  and  seem  to  touch  the  sky; 
The  eternal  snows  appear  already  past, 
And  the  first  clouds  and  mountains  seem  the  last. 
But  those  attained,  Ave  tremble  to  survey 
The  growing  labours  of  the  lengthening  way; 
Th'  increasing  prospect  tires  our  wond'ring  eyes — 
Hills  peep  o'er  hills,  and  Alps  on  Alps  arise! 

The  metaphor  is  not  a  bad  one  for  a  young 
gentleman  who  had  never  seen  a  higher  mountain 
than  Richmond  Hill;  but  it  obviously  implies  no 
love  of  the  "tow'ring  Alps"  either  in  the  poet  or 

1  Let  any  one  who  pays  a  visit  to  the  Zoological  Gardens 
remark  the  closeness  to  nature  of  the  following  remark 
upon  the  hippop  tamus: 

"  How  like  a  mountain  cedar  moves  his  tail!  " 


The  Old  School  37 

the  original  from  whom  he  copied.  And,  finally, 
I  will  quote  a  few  lines  from  one  of  the  worst  poets 
of  his  own  or  any  other  generation.  They  arc, 
however,  curious  as  an  example  of  the  way  in 
which  the  scientific  opinions  of  the  Burnet  or 
Kircher  variety  could  be  worked  into  rhyme. 
This  is  Blackmore's  account  of  the  mountains: 

These  strong  unshaken  mounds  resist  the  shocks 

Of  tides  and  seas  tempestuous,  while  the  rocks 

That  secret  in  a  long  continued  vein 

Pass  through  the  earth,  the  ponderous  pile  sustain; 

These  mighty  girders  which  the  fabric  bind, 

These  ribs  robust  and  vast  in  order  joined, 

These  subterranean  walls,  disposed  with  art, 

Such  strength  and  such  stability  impart 

That  storms  beneath  and  earthquakes  underground 

Break  not  the  pillars  nor  the  work  confound. 

Bad  metaphysics  are  too  easily  converted  into 
execrable  poetry,  and  it  is  not  surprising  that  a 
dissertation  on  final  causes  makes  very  indifferent 
verses.  Indeed,  it  would  be  absurd  to  expect 
that  poets  should  make  use  of  raw  science  or  philo- 
sophy; though  they  may  turn  to  account  the 
results  obtained  by  scientific  thinkers,  and  profit 
by  the  habits  of  close  observation  of  nature  which 
they  have  inculcated.  Before  anybody  had  ever 
looked  into  the  mountains  closely,  classified  their 
flora  and  catalogued  their  strata,  it  was  impossible 
for  a  poet  to  do  better  than  make  a  few  random 


38         The  Playground  of  Europe 

allusions  to  their  most  obvious  features.  Even 
if  he  had  possessed  the  necessary  knowledge,  he 
might  as  well  have  written  in  Hebrew  as  talked 
about  glaciers  or  avalanches.  Anything  which 
is  to  be  a  fit  object  for  poetical  management  must 
be  already  associated  with  some  strong  feeling  in 
the  mind  of  the  audience  as  well  as  of  the  writer. 
The  speculations  in  natural  theology  to  which  the 
mountains  gave  rise  were  especially  unsuitable 
for  poetry.  That  was  the  era  of  applying  common 
sense  to  theology,  from  which  it  has  since  been 
banished  effectually  enough.  In  other  words,  the 
philosophers  of  that  time  had  an  undoubted  con- 
fidence in  their  powers  of  explaining  everything, 
and  seem  to  have  considered  the  Supreme  Being 
as  a  highly  intelligent  ruler  whose  purposes  might 
be  very  fairly  understood  and  whose  legal  position 
in  regard  to  mankind  could  be  accurately  defined. 
Poetry  is  out  of  place  when  mystery  disappears, 
and  the  deeper  religious  motives  are  for  the  time 
banished  from  the  world.  Our  imaginations  may 
be  awed  when  we  look  at  the  mountains,  from  a 
purely  scientific  point  of  view,  as  monuments  of 
the  slow  working  of  stupendous  forces  of  nature 
through  countless  millenniums.  But  when  we 
know  precisely,  by  a  metaphysical  demonstration, 
that  they  were  made  as  very  large  "girders," 
they  are  not  much  more  impressive  than  the  roof 


The  Old  School  39 

of  a  railway  station.  The  modes  of  operation 
which  are  within  the  grasp  of  the  metaphysician's 
intellect  are  measured  by  the  scale  of  his  own 
mind ;  and  an  omnipotent  Blackmore  is  only  a  very 
strong  Blackmore  after  all.  The  taste  of  the 
generation  to  which  he  belonged,  though  it  had 
many  advantages  as  compared  with  our  anarchical 
state  of  sentiment,  was  certainly  not  favourable 
to  the  emotions  due  to  sublimity  of  any  kind. 
When  Pope's  versification,  and  Vanbrugh's  archi- 
tecture, and  Locke's  philosophy — all  of  them 
admirable  things  in  their  way — were  the  highest 
ideals  of  mankind,  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that 
Mont  Blanc  and  the  Jungfrau  should  be  duly 
appreciated.  They  would  hardly  have  stooped, 
if  they  could  have  been  consulted,  to  the  worship 
of  such  a  generation.  They  came  in  with  the 
renewed  admiration  for  Shakespeare,  for  Gothic 
architecture,  for  the  romantic  school  of  art  and 
literature,  and  with  all  that  modern  revolutionary 
spirit  which  we  are  as  yet  hardly  in  a  position  to 
criticise.  I  will  endeavour  shortly  to  point  out 
in  the  following  section  the  most  conspicuous 
names  connected  with  this  great  change  of  taste. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    NEW    SCHOOL 

We  may  begin  by  enquiring  at  what  precise 
period  the  taste  for  mountain  scenery  became  a 
recognised  and  vigorous  reality.  The  most  direct 
testimony  to  this  purpose  is  that  of  Chateaubriand, 
who  may  be  considered  as  the  most  distinguished 
devil's  advocate  who  ever  protested  against  the 
canonisation  of  the  new  objects  of  reverence,  and 
who  had  the  audacity  to  assert  categorically  and 
unequivocally  that  the  Alps  were  ugly.  I  would 
be  the  last  to  suggest  that  any  person  who  main- 
tains such  heretical  opinions,  even  at  the  present 
day,  ought  to  be  summarily  stoned  or  burnt. 
It  is  quite  possible  for  a  scoffer  at  the  Alps  to  be  an 
excellent  father  of  a  family,  an  honest  politician, 
and  even  to  have  glimmerings  of  good  taste  in  other 
departments  of  the  beautiful.  When,  however, 
a  man  utters  so  bold  an  opinion,  it  is  worth  while 
asking  what  he  means.  He  may  intend  to  say  that 
he  personally  does  not  like  the  Alps,  which  is  of 
course  unanswerable;  or  that  other  people  do  not 
like  them,  which  can  only  be  met  by  a  peremptory 

40 


The  New  School  41 

negative;  or,  finally,  that  other  people  ought  not 
to  like  them — that,  in  short,  a  taste  for  Alpine 
scenery,  like  a  taste  for  prize-fighting  or  pigeon- 
shooting,  is  in  some  way  a  proof  of  a  depraved 
state  of  the  faculties.  Chateaubriand  is  bold 
enough  to  argue  that  the  Alps  do  not  give  pleas- 
ure, though  his  arguments  on  this  head  will 
scarcely  trouble  the  faith  of  true  believers;  but 
he  also  says  in  substance,  which  is  to  us  more 
interesting,  that  if  you  admire  the  Alps  you  must 
be  a  revolutionist  and  a  materialist.  These  are 
ugly  names,  though  the  frequency  of  their  use  has 
rather  diminished  their  terrors ;  but  we  may  glance 
shortly  at  his  line  of  argument.  He  tells  us  that 
the  mountains  do  not  look  so  big  as  they  really 
are.  In  other  words,  a  Frenchman  on  his  first 
visit  to  Chamouni  did  not  appreciate  the  size  of 
the  objects  before  him.  Nothing  could  be  more 
natural,  and  for  the  simple  reason  that  mountains, 
like  all  other  superlatively  beautiful  objects, 
require  long  and  affectionate  study  before  their 
charms  are  fully  revealed.  The  cockney  who 
enters  the  British  Museum  generally  prefers  the 
stuffed  hippopotamus  to  the  Elgin  marbles;  but 
that  is  not  the  fault  of  the  Greek  sculptors. 
Xor  is  there  much  in  the  argument  that  you  can- 
not sec  a  large  part  of  the  sky  from  a  deep  valley, 
or  enjoy  a  sunset  at  Chamouni.     The  beauty  of 


42         The  Playground  of  Europe 

the  celestial  canopy  does  not  depend  on  the  num- 
ber of  square  yards  plainly  visible;  if  a  certain 
strip  is  cut  off  near  the  horizon,  the  balance  is 
far  more  than  redressed  by  the  apparent  depth 
of  the  atmosphere,  and  the  incomparable  superior- 
ity of  the  energetic  mountain  mist  to  its  lazy 
lowland  rival;  whilst  as  for  sunsets,  nobody  can  be 
said  to  have  seen  a  sunset  who  has  not  watched 
the  last  Alpine  glow  dying  off  the  everlasting 
snow-fields.  Chateaubriand's  appeals  to  the  an- 
cients who  did  not  care  for  the  mountains,  or  to 
the  Bible  where  the  Mount  of  Olives  (not,  I 
believe,  a  very  Alpine  summit)  is  mentioned  only 
as  the  scene  of  superhuman  agony,  need  little 
answer.  Perhaps  the  thunders  of  Sinai  might 
be  quoted  against  him;  and  one  might  venture 
to  remark  that  a  certain  view  from  an  ' '  exceeding 
high  mountain"  must  at  least  have  been  consid- 
ered as  highly  attractive  by  a  very  good  judge  of 
human  pleasures.  Chateaubriand  admits,  in  con- 
clusion, that  the  Alps  might  do  for  an  anchorite, 
and  that  they  may  form  a  beautiful  background  a 
long  way  off.  "Leurs  tetes  charnues,"  he  says, 
"  leurs  flancs  dechames,  leurs  membres  gigan- 
tesques,  hideux  quand  on  les  contemple  de  trop 
pres,  sont  admirables  lorsqu'au  fond  d'un  horizon 
vapoureux  ils  s'arrondissent  et  se  colorent  dans 
une   lumiere    fluide   et    doree."      And   he  thinks 


The  New  School  43 

they  would  be  a  suitable  dwelling  for  an 
anchorite. 

The  true  motive  of  Chateaubriand's  sacrilegious 
onslaught  on  the  mountains  was,  as  I  have  sug- 
gested, his  dislike  to  the  supposed  principles  of 
their  adorers.  The  passion  for  mountain  scenery, 
whose  strength  at  the  time  of  his  writing  is  at- 
tested by  the  energy  of  his  attack,  was  in  his  eyes  a 
symptom  of  that  revolutionary  impulse  of  which 
Rousseau  was  the  first  great  exponent.  Saussure 
invented  Mont  Blanc,  he  tells  us;  but  Rousseau 
was  the  arch-heretic  who  instituted  a  regular  and 
avowed  worship  of  the  Alps.  It  was  of  a  piece 
with  his  other  sentimentalisms  and  ravings  against 
the  orthodox  canons,  whether  of  art  or  religion. 
Indeed,  Rousseau  is  accused,  which  at  first  sight 
seems  rather  hard,  of  a  "certain  materialism,"  for 
exalting  the  charms  of  mountain  scenery.  Pie 
exaggerates  the  influence  of  external  nature  over 
the  spirit,  and  falls  into  raptures  over  stocks  and 
stones  which  he  should  have  reserved  for  less 
tangible  objects  of  worship. 

I  imagine  that  this  affiliation  of  our  modern 
sentiment  is  substantially  correct,  and  the  fact 
throws  some  light  upon  the  growth  of  the  new 
faith.  If  Rousseau  were  tried  for  the  crime  of 
setting  up  mountains  as  objects  of  human  worship, 
he  would  be  convicted  by  any  impartial  jury.     1  Ie 


44         The  Playground  of  Europe 

was  aided,  it  is  true,  by  accomplices,  none  of  whom 
was  more  conspicuous  than  Saussure;  and  he  had 
a  few  feeble  precursors,  one  or  two  of  whom 
shall  be  mentioned  directly.  Luther  was  preceded 
in  his  attacks  upon  the  ancient  Church  by  such 
men  as  Wycliffe  and  Huss;  many  inventors  had 
tried  their  hands  on  the  steam-engine  before 
Watt  made  the  great  step  towards  its  perfection ; 
older  navigators,  it  is  said,  had  seen  the  shores 
of  America  before  they  were  reached  by  Colum- 
bus. No  great  discovery  or  revolt  falls  entirely 
to  the  share  of  one  leader;  many  have  caught  dim 
glimpses  of  the  light  before  the  rising  of  the  sun. 
But  Rousseau,  though  partly  anticipated,  and 
though  his  revelation  had  to  be  completed  by 
various  supplementary  prophets,  may  be  called, 
without  too  much  straining  of  language,  the 
Columbus  of  the  Alps,  or  the  Luther  of  the  new 
creed  of  mountain  worship.  He  showed  the 
promised  land  distinctly,  if  he  did  not  himself  enter 
into  and  possess  it.  His  title  may  be  established 
by  examining  the  date  at  which  that  doctrine 
first  became  popular,  and  in  some  degree  defining 
the  change  of  sentiment  to  which  it  was  due. 

The  date,  in  the  first  place,  may  be  fixed  by 
two  or  three  simple  facts.  The  dividing  line  may 
bc  drawn  about  1760,  and  the  Alps  were  fairly 
inaugurated  (in  modern  phrase)  as  a  public  play- 


The  New  School  45 

ground  by  the  generation  of  travellers  which 
succeeded  the  Seven  Years'  War.  In  1760  Saussure 
paid  his  first  visit  to  Chamouni,  and  says  that  the 
route  was  then  both  dangerous  and  difficult; 
though  we  may  add,  with  some  patriotic  pride, 
that  Pocock  and  Wyndham,  the  earliest  fore- 
runners of  the  great  herd  of  British  tourists,  had 
penetrated  so  far  as  early  as  1741.  In  1761 
Saussure  offered  a  reward  for  the  discovery  of  a 
route  to  the  summit  of  Mont  Blanc,  and  the 
quarter  of  a  century  which  elapsed  between  that 
time  and  the  final  accomplishment  of  his  wishes 
may  be  regarded  as  the  period  of  the  first  great 
invasion  of  sightseers.  Gibbon  tells  us  that 
in  1755  the  fashion  of  "climbing  the  mountains 
and  reviewing  the  glaciers"  had  not  yet  been  in- 
troduced by  foreign  travellers.  When  he  retired 
to  Lausanne  in  1783,  fashion,  he  says,  had  "opened 
us  on  all  sides  to  the  incursions  of  travellers." 
We  may  fix  the  same  period  by  comparing  two 
sturdy  commonplace  authors  of  that  class  which 
Mr.  Carlyle  emphatically  describes  as  "wooden." 
They  cannot  be  suspected  of  the  least  gleam  of 
originality,  and  are  therefore  well  qualified  to  be 
witnesses  to  the  ordinary  state  of  mind  of  their 
gen  e  rati  on. 

Gruner,    whose   book,    first   published   in    1760, 
was  for  some  time  a  standard  authority,  represents 


46  The  Playground  of  Europe 

the  last  phase  of  the  old  period.  He  talks  freely 
of  the  "horrors  and  beauties"  of  the  Alps,  but 
we  can  easily  see  how  the  terms  ought  to  be  dis- 
tributed. He  stands,  for  example,  on  theGrimsel, 
where  the  traveller  looks  down  upon  fertile 
valleys,  and  upwards  to  the  wild  ranges  of  Ober- 
land.  The  Haslithal  and  the  Valais  excite 
Gruner's  unaffected  admiration ;  but  the  masses  of 
ice  and  snow  to  east  and  west  make  him  openly 
shudder.  The  bravest  chamois-hunters  and  crys- 
tal-finders will  scarcely  venture  into  the  terrible 
valley  of  the  Ober-aar  glacier;  the  region  which 
stretches  to  its  foot  is  a  terrible  desert;  the  moun- 
tain ranges  lead  to  a  desert,  terrible  in  itself, 
and  inspire  fear  and  horror.  "Horror,"  in  short, 
is  always  on  his  lips,  though  a  dash  of  curiosity, 
not  quite  unmixed  with  admiration,  begins  to 
penetrate  at  intervals.  Sixteen  years  later  we 
find  the  good  solid  orthodox  British  parson  ad- 
mirably represented  by  Archdeacon  Coxe.  He 
was  of  the  type  of  those  appalling  members  of 
Parliament  who  now  employ  their  vacation  in 
amassing  materials  for  blue-books.  He  differs 
from  his  pleasure-seeking  successors,  by  con- 
descending to  take  an  interest  in  the  political  in- 
stitutions of  the  country;  but  he  has  an  eye,  such 
as  it  is,  for  scenery.  He  graciously  approves  the 
sights  provided  for  him  in  a  respectable  though  a 


The  New  School  47 

foreign  region,  and  is  sufficiently  candid  to  prefer 
the  Linththal  to  Matlock.  The  Rigi  seems  to 
have  been  still  a  mere  "phenomenon  of  nature" 
in  a  geological  point  of  view;  but  our  other  old 
friends,  such  as  the  Rhone  glacier,  the  Handeck, 
and  the  Reichenbach  Falls,  are  already  established 
objects  of  interest.  From  Lauterbrunnen  he 
"contemplates  with  rapture"  and  astonishment 
part  of  the  great  central  chain  "of  the  Alps." 
He  even  reaches  the  couvercle  on  the  Mer  de 
Glace,  and  admires,  though  he  does  not  visit, 
the  Jar  din.  He  is  a  little  disappointed  by  the 
glaciers  after  the  "turgid  accounts"  which  he 
had  heard  and  read;  but  finally  gives  them  his 
distinct  approval.  Nay,  he  records  the  first 
ascent  of  the  Titlis;  and  I  regret  to  add,  for  the 
credit  of  Alpine  travellers,  that  the  first  climber 
of  that  charming  mountain  not  only  asserted  (what 
seems  to  have  been  a  common  opinion)  that  it 
was  second  in  height  amongst  Alpine  peaks,  but 
declared  that  an  amazing  valley  of  ice  stretched 
from  its  foot  "almost  to  Mont  Blanc."  When  I 
add  that  Coxe  prints  a  panorama  of  the  Lake  of 
Thun  from  the  summit  of  the  Niesen,  it  will  be 
abundantly  clear  that  the  career  of  the  modern 
tourist  was  fully  open  about  a  century  ago. 

We   may   say,    then,   that   before   the  turning- 
point  of  the  eighteenth  century  a  civilised  being 


48         The  Playground  of  Europe 

might,  if  he  pleased,  regard  the  Alps  with 
unmitigated  horror.  After  it,  even  a  solid  arch- 
deacon, with  a  firm  belief  in  the  British  constitu- 
tion, and  Church  and  State,  was  compelled  to 
admire,  under  penalty  of  general  reprobation. 
It  required  as  much  originality  to  dislike  as  it  had 
previously  required  to  admire.  If  we  ask  by  what 
avenues  the  beauty  of  the  Alps  succeeded  in  first 
revealing  itself  to  an  unpoetical  generation,  we 
shall  find  two  or  three  leading  trains  of  sentiment 
wdrich  gradually  became  popular.  Rousseau, 
whose  Nouvelle  Heloise  was  first  published  in 
1759,  must,  as  I  have  said,  be  considered  as  the 
main  exponent  of  the  rising  sentiment.  I  have 
already  quoted  him  as  exhibiting  a  certain  in- 
difference to  our  present  objects  of  admiration. 
Yet  in  one  sense  he  is  susceptible  to  the  mountain 
influences;  he  is  in  the  right  frame  of  mind  for  a 
devout  worship  of  the  Alps,  though  the  idol  has 
not  yet  been  distinctly  revealed  to  him.  The 
sentiment  is  diffused  throughout  the  pages  of  the 
Nouvelle  Heloise,  which  is  ready  to  crystallise  into 
more  definite  form  so  soon  as  the  object  is  dis- 
tinctly presented.  If  he  had  lived  a  generation 
or  two  later  he  might  have  anticipated  much  of 
Mr.  Ruskin's  eloquence.  As  it  is,  the  absence 
of  distinct  reference  to  the  high  Alps  in  one  so 
naturally  predisposed  to  admire  them  is  as  signif- 


The  New  School  49 

icant  of  the  general  indifference  of  his  contem- 
poraries as  the  predisposition  itself  is  significant 
of  the  approaching  change.  We  are  in  the  early 
dawn,  before  the  diffused  light  has  been  con- 
centrated round  a  definite  centre.  It  follows  that 
Rousseau's  sentiments  must  be  gathered  rather 
from  the  general  tone  of  his  writings  than  from 
any  definite  passages.  In  the  Confessions,  in- 
deed, there  is  an  explicit  avowal  of  his  hatred 
for  the  plains,  and  his  love  of  torrents,  rocks, 
pines,  black  woods,  rough  paths  to  climb  and  to 
descend,  and  precipices  to  cause  a  delicious  terror; 
and  he  describes  two  amusements  so  characteristic 
of  the  genuine  mountaineer  that  we  feel  at  once 
that  he  is  in  the  right  track.  One  is  gazing  for 
hours  over  a  parapet  at  the  foam-spotted  waters 
of  a  torrent,  and  listening  to  the  cry  of  the  ravens 
and  birds  of  prey  that  wheel  from  rock  to  rock  a 
hundred  fathoms  beneath  him.  The  other  is  a 
sport  whose  charms  are  as  unspeakable  as  they 
are  difficult  of  analysis.  It  is  fully  described 
somewhere  (if  I  remember  rightly)  by  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  and  consists  in  rolling  big  stones  down  a 
cliff  to  dash  themselves  to  pieces  at  its  foot.  No 
one  who  cannot  contentedly  spend  hours  in  that 
fascinating  though  simple  sport  really  loves  a 
mountain.  The  leading  passage,  however,  which 
was  most  frequently   quoted,  and   was  probably 


So         The  Playground  of  Europe 

in  Chateaubriand's  mind,  occurs  in  the  Nouvelle 
Heloise,  where  the  lover  retires  to  the  Valais  and 
speculates  with  his  usual  flow  of  language  upon 
the  causes  of  his  sensations.  He  finds  himself 
happier  than  is  quite  becoming  at  such  a  distance 
from  Julie.  He  attributes  this  undeniable  happi- 
ness for  a  time  to  the  wonderful  spectacles  before 
him.  However,  when  it  lasts  over  another  night 
and  the  following  day,  he  finds  a  better  explana- 
tion. Climbing  the  highest  mountain  near  him, 
and  sitting  down  with  the  thunder  and  storm  at 
his  feet,  he  traces  the  true  cause  of  his  exhilaration 
to  the  state  of  the  atmosphere.  The  pleasure  con- 
ferred by  mountains  is  resolved  into  the  favour- 
able influence  produced  upon  the  digestion,  and 
the  tendency  to  promote  insensible  perspiration. 
It  must  be  admitted  that  this  has  a  rather  material- 
ist sound,  and  tends  to  justify  the  accusation 
above  quoted  from  Chateaubriand.  It  is,  indeed, 
characteristic  of  Rousseau  to  join  his  most  high- 
flown  sentiments  with  very  materialist  explana- 
tions. Let  him  throw  the  first  stone  who  has 
never  felt  his  taste  for  scenery  affected  by  the 
state  of  his  digestion,  and  whose  love  of  the 
beautiful  is  not  in  some  degree  measured  by 
the  variations  of  the  barometer.  We  can- 
not honestly  omit  from  our  catalogue  of  the 
charms    of  Alpine   scenery    the   influences  whose 


The  New  School  51 

immediate    action    is   upon    the    lungs   and     the 
stomach. 

It  matters,  however,  far  less  how  a  great  writer 
accounts  for  his  feelings  than  how  he  feels.  Rous- 
seau is  disappointing  when  he  takes  to  philosophy ; 
but  his  sentiment,  though  often  disgusting  to 
modern  readers  and  intolerably  long-winded  in  its 
expression,  was  the  cause  of  his  extraordinary 
power  over  the  age.  The  mode  in  which,  as  I 
imagine,  he  really  taught  men  to  love  the  moun- 
tains was  by  expressing  with  unequalled  eloquence 
that  eighteenth-century  doctrine  which  has  be- 
come so  faded  and  old-fashioned  for  us.  The 
denunciations  of  luxury,  the  preference  of  a 
savage  to  a  civilised  life,  and  all  those  paradoxes 
which  our  grandfathers  discussed  so  seriously, 
and  which  we  have  agreed  to  ridicule,  though 
perhaps  they  had  a  very  real  meaning  in  them, 
naturally  combined  themselves  with  a  rather 
extravagant  craving  for  wild  as  compared  with 
cultivated  scenery;  and  with  a  professed  admira- 
tion, which  was  not  quite  insincere,  for  the  simple 
pastoral  life  of  primitive  populations.  The  love 
of  the  mountains  came  in  with  the  rights  of  man 
and  the  victory  of  the  philosophers;  and  all  the 
praise  of  Alpine  scenery  is  curiously  connected 
with  praise  of  the  unsophisticated  peasant.  It 
seems  as  if  the  philosophers  fancied  that  they  had 


52  The  Playground  of  Europe 

found  a  fragment  of  the  genuine  Arcadia  still 
preserved  by  the  Alpine  barrier  against  the  en- 
croachments of  a  corrupt  civilisation,  and  the 
mountains  came  in  for  some  of  the  admiration 
lavished  upon  the  social  forms  which  they  pro- 
tected. Thus,  for  example,  we  may  take  a  poem, 
which  in  its  day  had  a  certain  celebrity,  composed 
by  Haller  the  distinguished  physiologist,  and 
published  in  1728.  It  was  pronounced  to  be  as 
sublime,  and  to  bid  fair  to  be  as  immortal,  as  the 
Alps  themselves.  It  contains  some  descriptions 
which  imply  a  lively  interest  in  the  higher  ranges, 
and  an  intimate  knowledge  of  their  phenomena. 
There  is  a  striking  picture  of  an  Alpine  sunrise, 
and  a  description  of  the  Staubbach.  A  wanderer, 
he  exclaims, 

Ein    Wand'rer   sieht    erstaunt    im    Himmel    Strome 

fliessen, 
Die    aus  den  Wolken    zieh'n    und    sich    in   Wolken 

giessen; 

a  bold  couplet  in  defence  of  which  he  thinks  it 
necessary  to  adduce,  in  a  note,  the  testimony  of  a 
native  who  lived  near  the  then  unfrequented 
wilderness  of  Lauterbrunnen.  The  moral,  how- 
ever, which  Haller  has  most  at  heart  is  that  which 
fills  so  large  a  space  in  the  contemporary  literature. 
The  absence  of  luxury,  and  the  charms  of  a  simple 


The  New  School  53 

life,  are  the  main  theme  of  his  song.  In  the  quiet 
Alpine  valleys,  he  tells  us  with  great  emphasis, 
there  is  no  learning,  but  plenty  of  common  sense; 
there  is  hard  work,  but  security  and  comfort;  the 
drink  is  pure  water,  and  the  richest  dishes  are 
made  of  milk.  Ambition  and  the  thirst  for  gold 
have  not  corrupted  the  Arcadian  simplicity  of  the 
natives,  or  introduced  social  inequalities.  Every 
season  of  the  year  brings  its  appropriate  labours 
and  its  simple  pleasures;  there  is  wrestling  and 
putting  of  weights  and  dancing  on  holidays; 
marriage  is  honoured,  and  the  heart  always  follows 
the  hand.  In  short,  the  mountains  had  still 
kept  that  much-abused  Luxury  at  bay ;  and  there, 
if  anywhere,  might  be  found  some  traces  of  that 
state  of  nature  so  ardently  desired  by  theorists  and 
poets.  The  same  sentiment,  caught  up  and  re- 
peated in  various  forms,  supplies  much  of  the 
ordinary  rhetoric  about  the  Alps  for  many  years  to 
come.  Goldsmith  expresses  it  in  the  graceful 
verses  of  The  Traveller,  when  he  turns  from  the 
Italian  plains  to  survey  the  country 

Where  rougher  climes  a  nobler  race  display, 

Where  the  bleak  Swiss  their  stormy  mansions  spread, 

And  force  a  churlish  soil  for  scanty  bread. 

Rousseau,  though  the  great  teacher,  had  no 
monopoly  of  the  doctrine.  To  us  it  sounds  a 
very     faded     and     dreary     commonplace;    partly 


54         The  Playground  of  Europe 

because  our  whole  point  of  view  on  such  topics  has 
considerably  changed;  and  partly,  it  must  be  said 
because  Switzerland  is  about  the  last  place  to 
which  the  hater  of  luxury  would  now  resort. 
The  Swiss  soil  in  these  days  is  only  churlish  and 
bleak  enough  to  give  additional  zest  to  the  hotels 
of  Chamouni  and  Interlaken;  and  the  sturdy 
peasant  who  then  saw 

No  costly  lord  the  sumptuous  banquet  deal 
To  make  him  loathe  his  vegetable  meal, 

has  become  very  well  accustomed  to  that  spectacle, 
and  regards  the  said  lord  as  his  most  reliable 
source  of  Trinkgelder  and  other  pecuniary  ad- 
vantages. Yet  the  sentiment,  though  in  a  some- 
what altered  form,  is  by  no  means  extinct.  In 
one  sense  it  is  perhaps  more  lively  than  ever.  If 
the  Swiss  have  lost  something,  it  may  be  too  much, 
of  their  churlishness,  the  mountains  themselves 
are  fortunately  impregnable  citadels  of  natural 
wildness.  We  may  turn  with  greater  eagerness 
than  ever  from  the  increasing  crowds  of  respectable 
human  beings  to  savage  rock  and  glacier,  and  the 
uncontaminated  air  of  the  High  Alps.  Nor,  to 
say  the  truth,  is  the  charm  of  the  Alpine  life 
really  so  extinct  as  cockney  travellers  would  per- 
suade us.  There  are  innumerable  valleys  which 
have  not  yet  bowed  the  knee  to  Baal,  in  the  shape 


The  New  School  55 

of  Mr.  Cook  and  his  tourists;  and  within  a  few 
hours  of  one  of  the  most  frequented  routes  in 
Europe  there  are  retired  valleys  where  Swiss 
peasants- -I  mention  a  fact — will  refuse  money  in 
exchange  for  their  hospitality.  It  may  be  re- 
marked too,  in  passing,  that  most  describers 
of  scenery  seem  to  dwell  too  little  upon  what  may 
be  called  the  more  human  side  of  the  pleasures 
of  scenery.  The  snows  of  Mont  Blanc  and  the 
cliffs  of  the  Matterhorn  would  have  their  charm 
in  the  midst  of  a  wilderness;  but  their  beauty 
is  amazingly  increased  when  a  weather-stained 
chalet  rises  in  the  foreground ;  when  the  sound  of 
cowbells  comes  down  through  the  thin  air;  or  the 
little  troop  of  goats  returns  at  sunset  to  the  quiet 
village.  I  say  nothing  of  that  state  of  society 
which  has  rendered  possible  the  Ammergau  mys- 
tery ;  because,  to  say  the  truth,  I  fear  we  must 
have  seen  nearly  the  last  of  it,  and  am  always 
expecting  to  hear  of  a  performance  taking  place 
at  the  Crystal  Palace.  If  the  mountains  could  be 
swept  clear  of  all  life  which  has  been  growing  up 
amongst  them  for  centuries,  and  which  harmonise 
them  as  the  lichens  mellow  the  scarred  masses  of 
fallen  rock,  they  would  be  deprived  of  half  their 
charm.  The  snowy  ranges  of  California  or  the 
more  than  Alpine  heights  of  the  Caucasus  may 
doubtless  be  beautiful,  but  to  my  imagination  at 


56  The  Playground  of  Europe 

least  they  seem  to  be  unpleasantly  bare  and  chill, 
because  they  are  deprived  of  all  those  intricate 
associations  which  somehow  warm  the  bleak 
ranges  of  Switzerland.  The  early  forms  of  this 
sentiment  gave  to  the  Alps  a  certain  moral  value. 
They  were  the  natural  retreat  of  men  disgusted 
with  the  existing  order  of  things,  profoundly 
convinced  of  its  rottenness;  and  turning  some- 
times in  a  sufficiently  morbid  and  sentimental 
frame  of  mind  to  the  nearest  regions  which  were 
still  unspoilt  or  unimproved  by  the  aggressive 
forces  of  civilisation.  If  virtue  consisted  in 
spinning  your  own  cloth  from  your  own  sheep, 
and  confining  your  diet  to  black  bread  and  milk, 
it  was  to  be  found  in  the  Alpine  valleys.  If  the 
sight  of  towns  and  palaces,  and  the  "abodes  of 
luxury"  generally,  was  suggestive  of  nothing  but 
vice  and  oppression,  Paradise  might  be  judi- 
ciously sought  after  amongst  the  "longues  aretes 
de  rochers,  les  crevasses,  les  trous,  les  entor- 
tillements  des  vallees  des  Alpes,"  for  which 
Chateaubriand  expressed  his  sincere  disgust. 

This,  at  any  rate,  is  reckoned  amongst  the 
charms  of  the  mountains  by  another  writer  of 
whom  something  must  be  said  by  every  one  who 
touches,  however  lightly,  on  the  subject.  Saus- 
sure  deserves  the  unfeigned  reverence  of  every 
true  mountaineer.     Saussure,  indeed,  was  prima- 


The  New  School  57 

rily  a  man  of  science;  but  he  was  one  of  the  long 
series  of  Alpine  travellers  who  have  illustrated  by 
example  the  mode  in  which  the  data  supplied  by 
science  may  be  turned  to  account  for  poetical 
purposes.  Readers  of  Forbes  or  Tyndall  will  not 
require  to  be  told  how  the  accurate  observation 
of  Alpine  phenomena,  and  the  patient  interpreta- 
tion of  the  natural  monuments,  supplies  the  moun- 
tains with  a  new  language  as  imposing  and 
sublime  as  that  which  is  spoken  by  the  ruins  of  hu- 
man workmanship.  The  Pyramids  or  the  broken 
arches  of  a  Roman  amphitheatre  are  not  more 
impressive  to  the  rightly  prepared  understanding 
than  the  vast  obelisks  and  towers  that  have  been 
raised  and  carved  and  modelled  by  mysterious 
forces  throughout  ages  of  indefinable  antiquity. 
I  have  sometimes  doubted  the  justice  of  Words- 
worth's denunciation  of  the  gentleman  who  would 
peep  and  botanise  upon  his  mother's  grave. 
There  are  obvious  objections  to  the  process ;  but, 
after  all,  would  not  a  botanist  of  any  sensibility 
be  more  deeply  affected  by  the  flowers  whose 
forms  he  had  studied,  and  whose  beauty  he  had 
learnt  to  appreciate,  than  the  ordinary  observer 
who  has  no  special  associations  with  the  objects 
confounded  together  under  the  general  name  of 
weeds?  At  any  rate,  the  inquirers  who  have 
peeped  and  botanised  under  the  shadow  of  Mont 


58  The  Playground  of  Europe 

Blanc  have  proved  that  their  habits  had  no 
tendency  to  deaden  their  love  of  nature.  Though 
Saussure  seldom  indulges  in  passages  of  set  elo- 
quence, his  appreciation  of  mountain  scenery  is 
always  breaking  through  the  drier  details  of 
scientific  pursuits.  Two  well-known  passages  re- 
cord his  delight  in  the  calm  summer  evenings 
spent  during  his  stay  of  sixteen  days  (a  feat 
almost  unrivalled)  on  the  summit  of  the  Col  du 
Geant;  and  mention  as  the  happiest  hours  of  his 
life  those  which  he  spent  on  the  top  of  the  Cramont 
in  contemplation  of  the  southern  precipices  of 
Mont  Blanc.  In  the  preface  to  his  collected 
journeys  Saussure  tries  to  explain  the  secret  of 
his  pleasure.  From  his  youth,  he  tells  us,  he  had 
loved  the  mountains,  and  by  the  age  of  eighteen 
had  climbed  all  the  hills  round  Geneva.  He 
afterwards  visited  the  mountain  districts  of  Eng- 
land, France,  Germany,  and  Italy.  For  years  he 
was  prowling  round  the  base  of  Mont  Blanc,  till 
at  length  he  followed  Balmat  to  the  summit.  The 
traveller,  he  says,  who  has  surmounted  the  labour 
of  an  ascent  (for  Saussure  had  not  quite  risen  to 
the  purely  athletic  pleasure)  will  be  overwhelmed 
for  a  time  with  astonishment.  Then  he  will 
think  with  wondering  awe  of  the  long  series  of 
slow  changes  which  have  built  up  the  dome  of 
Etna,  or  raised  the  primeval  ridges  of  the  central 


The  New  School  59 

Alps.  He  will  feel  the  pettiness  of  man  in  pre- 
sence of  those  tremendous  forces  to  whose  action 
the  mountains  bear  unmistakable  testimony. 
All  the  natural  phenomena,  clouds  and  floods  and 
storms  and  avalanches,  have  an  intensity  of  which 
the  lowlander  can  form  no  conception.  And, 
finally,  he  adds,  the  mountains  have  a  moral  inter- 
est; the  Alpine  peasant  is  far  nobler  and  more 
independent  than  his  relation  in  the  plains;  and 
he  who  has  only  seen  the  labourer  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  towns  knows  nothing  of  the  true 
"man  of  nature. " 

Saussure  in  this  passage  gives  a  condensed 
summary  of  the  great  poem  of  the  Alps.  They 
had  been  preaching  in  vain  to  many  generations 
which  were  obstinately  deaf,  or  had  at  best 
caught  some  faint  glimpses  of  their  meaning. 
The  time  had  come  for  their  voice  to  fall  upon 
congenial  ears.  On  one  hand,  they  might  be 
regarded  as  huge  inarticulate  Sphinxes  sug- 
gesting problems  as  to  the  growth  of  the  world, 
the  barest  statement  of  which  affected  the  scientific 
imagination  with  a  sense  of  overpowering  sub- 
limit)'. On  the  other,  they  served  to  offer  an 
asylum  to  dreamers  like  Rousseau  who  have  tried, 
sometimes  in  very  inarticulate  language,  to  tell 
us  why  the  atmosphere  of  the  mountains  is  sooth- 
ing  to  minds  out  of  harmony  with  the    existing 


60  The  Playground  of  Europe 

social  order.  The  feeling,  which  cannot  perhaps 
be  very  well  reduced  into  logical  formula,  may  be 
pretty  well  expressed  in  a  passage  from  Mr. 
Matthew  Arnold's  friend  Obermann.  In  the 
lowlands,  he  says,  the  natural  man  is  corrupted  in 
breathing  a  social  atmosphere  made  turbid  by 
the  sound  of  the  arts,  of  our  noisy  ostentatious 
pleasures,  by  our  cries  of  hatred,  and  moans  of 
grief  and  anxiety. 

Mais  la,  sur  ces  monts  deserts  oule  eiel  est  immense, 
ou  l'air  est  plus  fixe,  et  les  temps  moins  rapides,  et  la 
vie  plus  permanente;  la,  nature  entiere  exprime  elo- 
quemment  un  ordre  plus  grand,  une  harmonie  plus 
visible,  un  ensemble  eternel.  La,  l'homme  retrouve 
sa  forme  alterable  mais  indestructible;  il  respire  l'air 
sauvage  loin  des  emanations  sociales;  son  etre  est 
a,  lui  comme  a  l'univers;  il  vit  d'une  vie  reelle  dans 
l'unite  sublime. 

If  this  cannot  be  reckoned  precisely  as  a  phi- 
losophical statement  of  truth,  it  is  a  poetical 
expression  of  the  sentiment  more  or  less  dimly 
present  to  the  minds  of  all  mountain-lovers. 
It  is  Rousseau's  doctrine  in  a  more  spiritual 
form. 

I  will  turn  for  a  few  minutes  to  another  vein  of 
sentiment,  which  was  worked  otit  by  a  different 
school  of  observers.  Even  in  the  depth  of  the 
much-vilified  eighteenth  century  there  were  traces 
of  the  tastes  which  in  England  first  found  distinct 


The  New  School  61 

utterance  in  Sir  Walter  Scott's  poetry,  and  have 
led  to  various  strange  developments  in  later  years. 
There  was  even  then  something  which  went  by 
the  name  of  the  romantic ;  and  which  was  to  our 
present  sentiment  what  carpenters'  Gothic  was 
to  our  elaborate  revivals  of  mediaeval  art. 

The  correct  remark  to  make  about  a  bit  of 
rough  scenery,  if  it  was  not  too  obtrusive  or  too 
actively  dangerous,  was  that  it  reminded  }tou  of 
Salvator  Rosa.  Every  now  and  then  it  might  be 
admitted  into  descriptions,  though  sparingly  and 
as  it  were  under  protest;  as  a  tame  rock  or  so,  a 
bit  of  grotesque  ruin,  or  a  miniature  waterfall, 
might  be  permitted  in  a  formal  garden.  There 
was  indeed  little  trace  of  that  close  observation 
of  nature  which  we  now  consider  to  be  essential; 
but  the  picturesque  element  could  not  be  alto- 
gether excluded.  Here,  for  example,  is  a  bit  of 
what  is  now  called  "word-painting"  from  Shaftes- 
b u  ry '  s  C *ha  ra  cte r ist  ics : 

Beneath  the  mountain's  feet  [he  says],  the  rocky 
country  rises  into  hills,  a  proper  basis  of  the  ponder- 
ous mass  above;  where  huge  embodied  rocks  lie 
piled  on  one  another,  and  seem  to  prop  the  high  arch 
of  heaven.  See  with  what  trembling  steps  poor 
mankind  tread  the  narrow  brink  of  the  deep  preci- 
pices! From  whence  with  giddy  horror  they  look 
down,  mistrusting  even  tin;  ground  that  bears  them; 
whilst  they  hear  the  hollow  sound  of  torrents  under- 


62  The  Playground  of  Europe 

neath,  and  sec  the  ruin  of  the  impending  rock  with 
falling  trees  which  hang  with  their  roots  upward  and 
seem  to  draw  more  ruin  after  them. 

This  is  not  really  a  description  of  a  mountain, 
but  of  a  rather  big  landslip.  A  touch  or  two  of 
similar  feeling  ought  to  be  discoverable  in  the 
letters  of  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu,  who 
passed  some  years  at  Lovere,  on  the  Lago  d'Iseo, 
and  deserves  some  credit  for  the  remark  that  it 
is  a  place  "the  most  beautifully  romantic  I  ever 
saw  in  my  life."  The  enthusiasm  rather  loses 
its  effect  when  we  find  her  discovering  a  close 
resemblance  between  Lovere  and  Tunbridge  Wells, 
and  afterwards  comparing  the  gardens  to  those 
on  Richmond  Hill.  We  come  to  more  distinct 
indications  of  the  modem  tendencies  in  the  fol- 
lowing generation.  Horace  Walpole  anticipated 
the  taste  of  later  times  in  this  as  in  many  other 
ways.  Walpole  had  ventured  to  declare  explicitly 
that  Gothic  architecture  was  at  once  "magnifi- 
cent and  genteel";  and  we  might  expect  that  he 
would  bestow  equally  judicious  praise  upon  the 
grander  effects  of  Alpine  scenery.  The  following- 
passage,  written  in  1739,  may  show  that  a  fine 
gentleman  of  the  rising  generation  could  even 
then  manufacture  a  very  fair  imitation  of  mod- 
ern raptures.  "But  the  road,  West,  the  road!" 
he  exclaims,  on  his  way  to  the  Grande  Chartreuse, 


The  New  School  63 

winding  round  a  prodigious  mountain  and  surrounded 
with  others,  all  shagged  with  hanging  woods,  obscured 
with  pines  and  lost  in  clouds !  Below,  a  torrent  break- 
ing through  cliffs,  and  tumbling  through  fragments  of 
rocks!  Sheets  of  cascade  forcing  their  silver  speed, 
and  hasting  into  the  roughened  river  at  the  bottom ! 
Now  and  then  an  old  foot-bridge,  with  a  broken  rail,  a 
leaning  cross,  a  cottage,  or  the  ruins  of  a  hermitage! 
This  sounds  too  bombast  and  romantic  for  one  that 
has  not  seen  it,  too  cold  for  one  that  has.  If  I  could 
send  you  my  letter  post  between  two  lovely  tem- 
pests that  echoed  each  other's  wrath,  you  might  have 
some  idea  of  this  noble  roaring  scene,  as  you  were 
reading  it. 

This  is  at  least  equal  to  the  modern  guide-book. 
Walpole's  friend  Conway,  a  year  or  two  later, 
declares  that  the  Rhine  shows  the  "most  rude 
romantic  scenery,  the  most  Salvator  Rosa  you 
ever  saw. "  And  Gray  wrote  a  Latin  ode  at  the 
Chartreuse,  which  later  travellers  frequently 
quote  as  sublime,  about  the  "niveas  rupes"  and 
"fera  juga," 

Clivosque  pracruptos,  sonantes 
Inter  aquas,  nemorumque  noctem. 

Gray,  indeed,  has  had  the  credit,  on  the  strength  of 
his  letters  from  the  Lakes  in  1769,  of  having  set  the 
fashion  of  mountaineering.  The  claim  is  clearly 
untenable;  but,  to  do  him  justice,  I  may  quote  one 
aspiration  for  which  we  may  give  him  due  credit. 
Speaking  of  a  young  Swiss  traveller,  he  says,  "I 


64         The  Playground  of  Europe 

have  a  partiality  for  him  because  he  was  burn 
amongst  mountains,  and  talks  of  them  with  en- 
thusiasm; of  the  forests  of  pines  which  grow 
darker  and  darker  as  you  ascend,  till  the  nemorum 
nox  is  completed  and  you  are  forced  to  grope 
your  way ;  of  the  cries  of  eagles  and  other  birds  of 
prey  adding  to  the  horror;  in  short,  of  all  the 
wonders  of  his  country  which  disturb  my  slum- 
bers in  Lovingland. "  The  traveller,  he  adds, 
must  stay  a  month  at  Zurich  to  learn  German, 
"and  the  mountains  must  be  traversed  on  foot, 
avec  des  grimpons  aux  mains  and  shoes  of  a  peculiar 
construction.  I  'd  give  my  ears  to  try!"  Per- 
haps it  is  as  well  that  he  did  not  try  with  "grim- 
pons" on  his  hands;  but  Gray  may  have  the 
credit  of  at  least  aspiring  to  become  a  genuine 
tourist  at  a  period  when  the  journey  involved 
such  serious  preparations. 

In  Walpole's  ecstasies  there  is,  it  may  be,  some- 
thing of  an  artificial  ring.  We  feel  that  he  would 
have  been  capable  of  erecting  a  sham  mountain 
at  Strawberry  Hill,  or  manufacturing  a  toy 
cascade,  and  thinking  his  playthings  pretty  nearly 
as  good  as  the  originals.  Some  men,  who  might 
perhaps  have  shown  a  deeper  feeling,  were  incapaci- 
tated by  the  simple  want  of  opportunity.  There 
is  a  melancholy  passage  in  Cowper's  Task  where 
lie   describes  the   view   from   an    "eminence"    in 


The  New  School  65 

the  neighbourhood  of  Olney.  Nobody  can  doubt 
that  Cowper  was  the  very  man  to  love  mountain 
scenery;  but  what  is  a  poor  poet  to  do  with 
such  mountains  as  rise  on  the  banks  of  the  Ouse? 
A  commentator  informs  us  that  the  view  from 
this,  the  nearest  approach  to  the  Alps  in  that 
district,  was  "bounded  on  the  north  by  a  lofty 
quickset  hedge."  The  imagination  that  would 
not  be  cramped  by  a  quickset  hedge  would  be 
capable  of  raising  the  Serpentine  to  the  dignity 
of  the  Atlantic,  or  painting  Niagara  from  Tedding- 
ton  Weir.  Amongst  the  earlier  poets  of  the 
century  there  is  at  least  one  who  had  the  benefit 
of  nobler  models.  It  is  proper,  I  hold,  to  ad- 
mire Thomson's  Seasons,  and  there  is  a  certain 
number  of  persons  who  are  capable  of  working 
admiringly  through  many  hundred  lines  of  de- 
scriptive blank  verse.  Even  Wordsworth  admits 
that  Thomson  was  a  genuine  observer  of  nature, 
though  of  course  he  takes  care  to  add  that  he 
was  admired  rather  for  his  faults  than  for  his 
beauties.  Now  Thomson  knew  the  Scotch  hills; 
or,  to  use  his  own  dialect,  his  Muse  had  seen 

Caledonia  in  romantic  view, 
Her  airy  mountains  from  the  waving  main 
Invested  with  a  keen  diffusive  sky, 
Breathing  the  soul  acute ;  her  forests  huge, 
Incult,  robust,  and  tall,  by  nature's  hand 
s 


66         The  Playground  of  Europe 

Planted  of  old ;  her  azure  lakes  between, 
Poured  out  extensive  and  of  watery  wealth 
Full ;  winding  deep  and  green  her  fertile  vales. 

And  so  on ;  which,  if  not  very  exalted  poetry,  bears 
at  least  some  traces  of  first-hand  touches  from  the 
land  of  lochs  and  moors.  These  and  other  verses 
deserve  more  credit  when  we  remember  that  they 
were  written  just  at  the  same  time  when  Captain 
Burt  (quoted  by  Lord  Macaulay  as  a  specimen 
of  the  contemporary  taste)  was  declaring  his 
decided  preference  of  Richmond  Hill  to  the 
Grampians.  Moreover  Thomson  had  to  struggle 
against  a  disqualification  only  less  serious  than 
that  of  the  general  indifference  of  the  time. 
He  was,  we  know,  "more  fat  than  bard  beseems," 
and,  many  as  are  the  virtues  which  naturally  fall  to 
the  lot  of  the  fat,  a  true  appreciation  of  mountain 
scenery  can  hardly  be  reckoned  among  them. 
When  a  man's  circumference  bears  more  than  a 
certain  ratio  to  his  altitude,  he  prefers  the  plains 
in  the  bottom  of  his  soul.  Such  admiration,  there- 
fore, as  Thomson  could  express  is  doubly  valuable. 
I  will  venture  to  quote  one  more  passage  as  a  fair 
specimen,  which  may  be  put  alongside  of  Byron's 
often  quoted  thunderstorm,  where 

Jura  answers  from  her  misty  shroud 

Back  to  the  laughing  Alps  that  call  to  her  aloud. 

Thomson's  version  is  as  follows: 


The  New  School  67 

Amidst  Carnarvon's  mountains  rages  loud 
The  repercussive  roar;  with  mighty  crash 
Into  the  flashing  deep  from  the  huge  rocks 
Of  Penmaenmawr  heaped  hideous  to  the  sky, 
Tumble  the  smitten  cliffs,  and  Snowdon's  peak 
Dissolving,  instant  yields  his  wintry  load; 
Far-seen  the  heights  of  heathy  Cheviot  blaze, 
And  Thule  bellows  through  her  utmost  isles. 

These,  if  I  mistake  not,  are  good  sonorous  lines; 
though  the  expressions  savour  rather  strongly 
of  the  gigantesque ;  and  the  storm  is  made  to  roar 
a  little  too  much  in  "Ercles'  vein."  The  moun- 
tains are,  so  to  speak,  still  in  the  background. 
The  poetry  may  remind  us  of  an  honest  citizen 
of  Berne  who  had  been  in  the  habit  of  consuming 
his  evening  pipe  on  the  terrace  above  the  Aar. 
He  sees  huge  forms  in  the  distance,  almost  beauti- 
ful when  lighted  by  the  setting  sun,  but  more  often 
looming  in  vague  sublimity  through  a  distinct 
haze,  and  gathering  storms  about  their  mysterious 
summits.  He  never  thinks  of  approaching  more 
closely,  and  holds  that 

The  pikes,  of  darkness  named  and  fear  and  storms, 

well  deserve  their  titles.  Thomson  could  admire 
his  native  hills,  but  he  liked  them  best  a  long  way 
off,  and  could  meditate  most  cheerfully  on  the 
frosty  Caucasus  when  it  warmed  his  imagination 
by    a    comfortable    fireside.     His    mountains    are 


68         The  Playground  of  Europe 

always  vague,  gloomy,  and  distant;  and  his  wan- 
derings do  not  stretch  beyond  the  cultivated 
regions  at  their  feet.  It  is  a  melancholy  fact,  too, 
that  in  one  description  he  makes  the  summit  of 
a  certain  hypothetical  mountain  in  Abyssinia 
"stretch  for  many  a  league." 

The  growth  of  the  modern  spirit  might  prob- 
ably be  further  illustrated  from  Ossian — if  it  were 
now  possible  for  any  human  being  raised  south 
of  the  Tweed  to  read  more  than  a  page  or  two 
of  that  strange  twaddle  whose  amazing  popularity 
throughout  Europe  is  a  curious  puzzle  to  our 
generation.  Wordsworth  labours  to  prove,  what 
seems  to  be  sufficiently  palpable,  that  his  moun- 
tains are  wretched  daubs,  and  utterly  unsatis- 
factory to  any  original  observer.  Still  a  taste  for 
daubs  may  be  the  precursor  of  an  appreciation  of 
more  genuine  portraits.  Certainly  there  is  some- 
thing significant  in  the  amazing  appetite  of  men 
in  that  generation  for  trash  which  the  humblest 
stomach  now  rejects  with  indignation.  Even 
Goethe,  for  example,  condescends  to  illustrate 
some  remarks  about  the  scenery  at  Scharlhausen 
by  a  reference  to  MacPherson's  bombast.  Of 
Goethe's  original  remarks  on  the  same  subject 
it  would  be  impertinent  to  offer  any  specimens. 
It  is  enough  to  say  that  he  has  made  some  phi- 
losophical remarks  on  the  beauties  of  Alpine  seen- 


The  New  School  69 

ery  in  his  letters  from  Switzerland,  and  that  his 
enthusiasm  about  the  "  wunderschones  Wallisthal" 
and  the  appalling  dangers  of  the  Furka  rather  out- 
runs the  zeal  of  the  present  generation.  It  would 
be  equally  absurd  to  quote  passages  from  the  great 
English  poets  of  the  beginning  of  this  century 
and  to  prove  that  Scott,  Wordsworth,  Shelley,  and 
Byron  loved  the  mountains  and  expounded  their 
teaching  with  a  power  which  has  met  with  no 
rivalry.  We  are  in  broad  daylight,  and  have  no 
need  to  remark  that  the  sun  is  shining.  I  need 
only  remark  how  much  their  poetry  is  affected, 
not  only  by  mountain  beauty  in  general,  but  by 
the  special  districts  which  were  most  congenial 
to  them. 

The  Lake  mountains  discourse  very  excellent 
music,  and  sometimes  in  favourable  moments 
can  rise  to  the  sublimity  of  the  great  ode  on  the 
Intimations  of  Immortality,  or  the  song  at  the 
feast  of  Brougham  Castle.  But  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that  they  are  a  little  too  much  infested  by 
the  "sleep  that  is  among  the  lonely  hills,"  and 
can  even  at  times  drop  into  the  flat  prose  which 
fills  certain  pages  of  the  Excursion.  We  can 
understand  how  a  poet  brought  up  at  their  feet 
should  labour  under  a  permanent  confusion  of 
ideas  between  Providence  and  the  late  Duke  of 
Wellington— a  delusion  which   would    have    been 


70         The  Playground  of  Europe 

scarcely  conceivable  amongst  the  great  central 
ridges  which  have  shaped  a  continent  and  fashioned 
the  history  of  the  world.  Scott,  too,  might  have 
been  stimulated  to  a  loftier  strain  by  the  tonic 
of  a  few  good  glaciers  and  avalanches  in  place  of 
his  dumpy  heather-clad  hills. 

Coleridge,  Byron,  and  Shelley  have  each  sung 
hymns,  after  their  fashion,  to  Mont  Blanc. 
Coleridge  makes  the  monarch  of  mountains  preach 
a  very  excellent  sermon,  though  I  fear  it  is  a 
plagiarism.  There  are  some  good  touches,  as  in 
the  lines 

Around  thee  and  above 
Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantially  black, 
An  ebon  mass;  methinks  thou  picrcest  it 
As  with  a  wedge: 

but  we  feel  him  to  be  more  at  home  in  the  fantas- 
tic and  gloomy  scenery  of  Kubla  Khan  or  the 
magical  icebergs  of  the  Ancient  Mariner.  The 
mountain  air  is  not  congenial  to  opium-eating. 
Byron's  mountains  treat  us  to  some  fine  vigorous 
poetry,  and  have  filled  popular  guide-books  with 
appropriate  quotations,  but  they  are  just  a  little 
too  anxious  to  express  their  contempt  for  man- 
kind. To  my  taste,  though  I  speak  with  diffidence, 
Shelley's  poetry  is  in  the  most  complete  harmony 
with  the  scenery  of  the  higher  Alps;  and  I  think 
it  highly  creditable  to  the  mountains  that  they 


The  New  School  71 

should  agree  so  admirably  with  the  most  poetical 
of  poets.  He  tells  us  that  his  familiarity  with 
such  scenery  was  one  of  his  qualifications.  "I 
have  been  familiar,"  he  says,  "from  boyhood 
with  mountains  and  lakes  and  the  sea  and  the 
solitude  of  forests;  danger  which  sports  upon  the 
brink  of  precipices  has  been  my  playmate ;  I  have 
trodden  the  glaciers  of  the  Alps  and  lived  under 
the  eye  of  Mont  Blanc."  Besides  the  lines  written 
in  the  Vale  of  Chamouni,  his  exquisite  sense  for 
the  ethereal  beauty  of  the  high  mountains  per- 
vades his  whole  poetry.  There  is  something 
essentially  congenial  to  his  imagination  in  the  thin 
atmosphere  of  the  upper  regions,  with  its  delicate 
hues  and  absence  of  tangible  human  interest. 
He  loves  the  clouds,  and  watches  them  folding 
and  sunning,  lighted  up  by  the  "sanguine  sunrise 
with  his  meteor  eyes,"  or  gathered  into  solid 
masses,  hanging  "sunbeam  proof,  over  a  torrent 
sea,"  with  unflagging  enthusiasm.  Now  the 
special  glory  of  mountain  scenery,  as  Goethe  has 
told  us,  is  that  the  clouds  do  not  there  present 
themselves  as  flat  carpets  spread  over  the  sky, 
but  enable  us  to  watch  them  as  they  form  and 
disperse,  and  roll  up  the  sides  of  the  gigantic  peaks. 
All  through  the  Prometheus  Unbound  we  feel 
ourselves  to  be  really  looking  out  from  the  top 
of  some  "eagle-baffling"  peak,  not  yet  vulgarised 


72  The  Playground  of  Europe 

by  associations  with  guides  and  picnics.     We  are 
where 

The  keen  sky-cleaving  mountains 
From  icy  spires  of  sunlike  radiance  fling 
The  dawn,  as  lifted  Ocean's  dazzling  spray, 
From  some  Atlantic  islet  scattered  up, 
Spangles  the  wind  with  lamplike  waterdrops. 

And  can  hear 

the  rushing  snow, 
The  sun-awakened  avalanche — whose  mass 
Thrice  sifted  by  the  storm  had  gathered  here, 
Flake  after  flake,  in  heaven-defying  minds 
As  thought  by  thought  is  piled,  till  some  great 

truth 
Is  loosened,  and  the  nations  echo  round, 
Shaken  to  their  roots,  as  do  the  mountains  now. 

Coleridge's  mountains  of  course  adduce  excellent 
arguments  in  favour  of  theism;  Byron's  indulge  in 
a  few  sneers  at  the  insignificance  of  mankind; 
and  Shelley's  have  "a  voice  to  repeal  large  codes 
of  fraud  and  woe,  not  understood  by  all,"  and, 
it  is  to  be  feared,  not  very  clearly  by  the  poet  him- 
self. But  all  of  them  are  genuine  mountains, 
so  to  speak,  of  flesh  and  blood,  not  mere  theatrical 
properties  constructed  at  second-hand  from  old 
poetical  commonplaces.  It  is  curious  from  this 
point  of  view  to  compare  them  with  the  moun- 
tains of  another  great  poet,  which  were  unluckily 
constructed  according  to  his  natural  method,  out 


The  New  School  73 

of  his  own  self-consciousness,  or,  rather,  by  the 
more  really  characteristic  method  of  indefatiga- 
ble cram.  Schiller  endeavours  to  give  the  local 
colour  to  William  Tell  by  dint  of  inserting  lit- 
tle bits  of  guide-book  information  about  Switzer- 
land. But  Schiller  had  never  seen  the  Alps,  and, 
in  spite  of  certain  criticisms  in  the  true  conven- 
tional spirit,  I  venture  to  assert  that  the  fact  is 
evident  to  every  reader  who  in  that  respect 
has  the  advantage  over  him.  He  is  aware,  indeed, 
that  certain  forests  maintained  for  protection 
against  avalanches  are  called  Bannwald,  that  there 
is  a  thing  called  a  Staublawine,  that  hay-cutting 
is  a  dangerous  trade,  that  chamois-hunters  do 
(or  do  not)  cut  their  feet  to  glue  themselves  to  the 
rocks  with  their  blood,  and  so  on.  Some  of  his 
elaborate  cram  is  brought  in  by  the  rather  clumsy 
device  of  making  an  Alpine  peasant  give  informa- 
tion to  his  sons  about  matters  which  are  as  familiar 
to  them  as  the  nature  of  an  omnibus  to  a  young 
cockney ;  but  that  is  a  pardonable  error  in  a  play- 
wright. Neither  can  I  complain  that  an  innocent 
reader  would  probably  infer,  from  Schiller's  ac- 
count, that  one  of  the  most  dangerous  feats  in 
vSwiss  travelling  is  to  cross  the  Lake  of  Lucerne 
in  a  very  big  barge,  for  that  is  naturally  sug- 
gested by  the  incident  in  Tell's  story.  But  I 
confess  that   I    am    rather   amazed  by  the  story 


74         The  Playground  of  Europe 

of  the  gallant  Arnold  von  Melchthal,  who  re- 
counts his  tremendous  adventures  to  the  con- 
spirators at  the  Rutli.  He  made,  it  seems,  an 
expedition — ■ 

Durch  der  Surennen  furchtbares  Gebirg, 

and  there  he  is  driven  to  the  direst  expedients.  He 
has  actually  to  drink  glacier-water,  and  to  sleep 
in  abandoned  chalets.  If  a  chamois-hunter  should 
endeavour  to  excite  the  compassion  of  his  com- 
rades by  the  recital  of  such  expedients,  I  very 
much  fear  that  he  would  be  strongly  advised  to 
abandon  his  profession.  Glacier-water  used  to 
be  considered  as  a  remedy  for  many  diseases,  and 
though  the  popular  superstition  is  now  in  the 
opposite  direction,  any  traveller,  poet  or  peasant, 
is  too  glad  to  have  an  occasional  draught.  Sleep- 
ing in  a  deserted  chalet  is  the  height  of  luxury, 
unless  we  must  suppose  that  the  brave  conspirator 
was  daunted  at  the  thought  of  fleas.  The  passage 
strikes  us  rather  as  if  a  man  who  had  never  seen 
the  ocean  should  represent  Columbus  as  deterred 
from  crossing  the  Atlantic  chiefly  by  the  thought 
of  seasickness.  That  William  Tell  is  an  admir- 
able play  in  other  respects  may  be  undeniable; 
but  I  confess  it  appears  to  me  to  be  a  practi- 
cal warning  that  the  genuine  local  colouring  can- 
not be  extracted  from  books;  and  that,  in  short, 


The  New  School  75 

even   a   poet   had   better   see   a   place    before   he 
attempts  to  describe  it. 

I  will  not  undertake  to  sum  up  the  conclusions 
which  might  be  drawn  from  these  rather  desultory- 
remarks.  My  readers- — for  I  may  assume  that 
my  readers  are  mountain-lovers — will  agree  that 
the  love  of  mountains  is  intimately  connected 
with  all  that  is  noblest  in  human  nature.  If  no 
formal  demonstration  of  that  truth  be  possible 
our  faith  in  it  will  be  not  the  less  firm,  and  all  the 
more  meritorious.  The  true  faith  in  these  matters 
is  not  indeed  a  bigoted  or  exclusive  creed.  I  love 
everything  in  the  shape  of  a  mountain,  from  Mont 
Blanc  down  to  Hampstead  Hill;  but  I  also  have 
some  regard  for  the  Fen  Country  and  the  flats 
of  Holland.  Mountain  scenery  is  the  antithesis 
not  so  much  of  the  plains  as  of  the  commonplace. 
Its  charm  lies  in  its  vigorous  originality;  and  if 
political  philosophers  speak  the  truth,  which  I 
admit  to  be  an  exceedingly  doubtful  proposition, 
the  great  danger  of  modern  times  consists  in  our 
loss  of  that  quality.  One  man,  so  it  is  said,  grows 
more  like  another;  national  costumes  die  out  be- 
fore monotonous  black  hats  and  coats;  we  all 
read  the  same  newspapers,  talk  the  same  twaddle, 
are  bound  by  the  same  laws  of  propriety,  and 
are  submitting  to  a  uniform  imposition  of  dull 
respectability.     Some    day,    it    is    supposed,    we 


76         The  Playground  of  Europe 

shall  all  bo  under  the  orders  of  a  Prussian  drill- 
sergeant;  and,  as  M.  Michelet  declares  in  his  book 
on  the  mountains,  la  vulgar  ite  prevaudra.  I  do  not 
enter  upon  these  wide  social  questions  beyond 
expressing,  by  way  of  parenthesis,  a  general  dis- 
belief in  all  human  predictions;  but  I  confess  that, 
especially  as  regards  scenery,  there  is  something 
to  be  said  for  such  melancholy  forebodings.  Lord 
Macaulay,  for  example,  announces  with  extreme 
satisfaction  the  advent  of  a  happy  day,  when 
cultivation  will  spread  to  the  top  of  Helvellyn, 
and  England,  we  must  suppose,  will  be  one  gigantic 
ploughed  field,  with  occasional  patches  of  coal- 
smoke.  Still  more  appalling  is  the  prospect  re- 
vealed to  us  by  some  American  patriots.  Their 
statistical  prophecies  about  the  Mississippi  valley 
have  given  me  occasional  nightmares.  Conceive 
of  a  gigantic  chess-board  many  hundreds  of  miles 
in  length  and  breadth,  with  each  square  so  like 
its  neighbours  that  any  two  might  be  changed 
in  the  night  without  its  inhabitants  detecting 
the  difference ;  suppose  each  square  to  be  inhabited 
by  several  millions  of  human  beings  as  like  as  the 
denizens  of  an  ant-hill;  all  of  them  highly  educated 
persons,  brought  up  under  school  boards  and  public 
meetings  and  church  organisations,  with  no  politi- 
cal or  social  grievances;  and,  in  short,  as  somebody 
calls    them,   intelligent    and  God-fearing  citizens. 


The  New  School  77 

The  imagination  fairly  recoils  from  the  prospect 
in  horror.  We  long  to  believe  that  some  earth- 
quake may  throw  up  a  few  mountain-ranges  and 
partition  off  the  country,  so  as  to  give  its  wretched 
inhabitants  a  chance  of  developing  a  few  distinctive 
peculiarities.  Yet  everywhere  the  same  phenom- 
enon is  being  repeated  on  a  smaller  scale.  Life, 
we  shall  soon  be  saying,  would  be  tolerable  if  it 
were  not  for  our  fellow-creatures.  They  come 
about  us  like  bees,  and  as  we  cannot  well  destroy 
them,  we  are  driven  to  fly  to  some  safe  asylum. 
The  Alps,  as  yet,  remain.  They  are  places  of 
refuge  where  we  may  escape  from  ourselves  and 
from  our  neighbours.  There  we  can  breathe  air 
that  has  not  passed  through  a  million  pair  of  lungs ; 
and  drink  water  in  which  the  acutest  philoso- 
phers cannot  discover  the  germs  of  indescribable 
diseases.  There  the  blessed  fields  are  in  no  danger 
of  being  "huzzed  and  mazed  with  the  devil's  own 
team."  Those  detestable  parallelograms,  which 
cut  up  English  scenery  with  their  monotonous 
hedgerows,  are  sternly  confined  to  the  valley. 
The  rocks  and  the  glaciers  have  a  character  of  their 
own,  and  are  not  undergoing  the  wearisome 
process  of  civilisation.  They  look  down  upon  us 
as  they  looked  down  upon  Hannibal,  and  despise 
our  wretched  burrowings  at  their  base.  Human 
society  has  been  adapted  to  the  scenery,  and  has 


78         The  Playground  of  Europe 

not  forced  the  scenery  to  wear  its  livery.  It  is  true, 
and  it  is  sad,  that  the  mountains  themselves  are 
coming  down ;  day  by  day  the  stones  are  rattling 
in  multitudes  from  the  flanks  of  the  mighty  cliffs; 
and  even  the  glaciers,  it  would  seem,  are  retreat- 
ing sulkily  into  the  deeper  fastnesses  of  the  high 
valleys.  And  yet  we  may  safely  say,  as  we  can  say 
of  little  else,  that  the  Alps  will  last  our  time. 
They  have  seen  out  a  good  many  generations,  and 
poets  yet  unborn  will  try  to  find  something  new  to 
say  in  their  honour.  Meanwhile  it  should  be- — I 
can  hardly  say  it  is- — the  purpose  of  the  following 
pages  to  prove  that  whilst  all  good  and  wise  men 
necessarily  love  the  mountains,  those  love  them 
best  who  have  wandered  longest  in  their  recesses, 
and  have  most  endangered  their  own  lives  and 
those  of  their  guides  in  the  attempt  to  open 
out  routes  amongst  them. 


CHAPTER  III 

ASCENT  OF  THE  SCHRECKHORN 

Most  people,  I  imagine, have  occasionally  sym- 
pathised with  the  presumptuous  gentleman  who 
wished  that  he  had  been  consulted  at  the  creation 
of  the  world.  It  is  painfully  easy  for  a  dweller 
in  Bedfordshire  or  the  Great  Sahara  to  suggest 
material  improvements  in  the  form  of  the  earth's 
surface.  There  are,  however,  two  or  three  dis- 
tricts in  which  the  architecture  of  nature  displays 
so  marvellous  a  fertility  of  design,  and  such 
exquisite  powers  of  grouping  the  various  elements 
of  beauty,  that  the  builders  of  the  Parthenon 
or  of  the  noblest  Gothic  cathedrals  could  scarcely 
have  altered  them  for  the  better.  Faults  may 
of  course  be  found  with  many  of  the  details: 
a  landscape  gardener  would  throw  in  a  lake 
here,  there  he  would  substitute  a  precipice  for  a 
gentle  incline,  and  elsewhere  he  would  crown  a 
mountain  by  a  more  aspiring  summit,  or  base  it  on 
a  more  imposing  mass.  Still  I  will  venture  to 
maintain  that  there  arc  districts  where  it  is  captious 
to  find  fault;  and  foremost  amongst  them  I  should 

79 


80       The  Playground  of  Europe 

place  the  three  best-known  glacier  systems  of  the 
Alps.  Each  of  them  is  distinguished  by  character- 
istic beauties.  The  mighty  dome  of  Mont  Blanc, 
soaring  high  above  the  ranges  of  aiguilles,  much 
as  St.  Paul's  rises  above  the  spires  of  the  City 
churches,  is  perhaps  the  noblest  of  single  mountain 
masses.  The  intricate  labyrinths  of  ice  and  snow 
that  spread  westwards  from  the  Monte  Rosa, 
amongst  the  high  peaks  of  the  Pennine  range,  are 
worthy  of  their  central  monument,  the  unrivalled 
obelisk  of  the  Matterhorn.  But  neither  Chamouni 
nor  Zermatt,  in  my  opinion,  is  equal  in  grandeur 
and  originality  of  design  to  the  Bernese  Oberland. 
No  earthly  object  that  I  have  seen  approaches  in 
grandeur  to  the  stupendous  mountain  wall  whose 
battlements  overhang  in  mid-air  the  villages  of 
Lauterbrunnen  and  Grindelwald;  the  lower  hills 
that  rise  beneath  it,  like  the  long  Atlantic  rollers 
beaten  back  from  the  granite  cliffs  on  our  western 
coast,  are  a  most  effective  contrast  to  its  stern 
magnificence ;  in  the  whole  Alps  there  is  no  ice- 
stream  to  be  compared  to  the  noble  Aletsch  gla- 
cier, sweeping  in  one  majestic  curve  from  the  crest 
of  the  ridge  down  to  the  forests  of  the  Rhone 
valley;  no  mountains,  not  even  the  aiguilles  of 
Mont  Blanc,  or  the  Matterhorn  itself,  can  show  a 
more  graceful  outline  than  the  Eiger — that  mon- 
ster, as  we  may  fancy,  in  the  act  of  bounding  from 


Ascent  of  the  Schreckhorn  Si 

the  earth;  and  the  Wetterhom,  with  its  huge  base- 
ment of  cliffs  contrasted  with  the  snowy  cone  that 
soars  so  lightly  into  the  air  above,  seems  to  me  to 
be  a  very  masterpiece  in  a  singularly  difficult  style; 
but  indeed  every  one  of  the  seven  familiar  sum- 
mits, whose  very  names  stand  alone  in  the  Alps 
for  poetical  significance — the  Maiden,  the  Monk, 
the  Ogre,  the  Storm  Pike,  the  Terror  Pike,  and 
the  Dark  Aar  Pike — would  each  repay  the  most 
careful  study  of  the  youthful  designer.  Four  of 
these,  the  Jungfrau,  Mdnch,  Eiger,  and  Wetterhom, 
stand  like  watchhouses  on  the  edge  of  the  cliffs. 
The  Jungfrau  was  the  second  of  the  higher 
peaks  to  be  climbed;  its  summit  was  reached  in 
1 828,  more  than  forty  years  after  Saussure's 
first  ascent  of  Mont  Blanc.  The  others,  together 
with  the  Fiiisteraamorn  and  Aletschhorn,  had 
fallen  before  the  zeal  of  Swiss,  German,  and 
English  travellers;  but  in  186 1  the  Schreckhorn, 
the  most  savage  and  forbidding  of  all  in  its  aspect, 
still  frowned  defiance  upon  all  comers. 

The  Schreckhorner  form  a  ridge  of  rock}'  peaks, 
forking  into  two  ridges  about  its  centre,  the 
ground-plan  of  which  may  thus  be  compared  to 
the  letter  Y.  The  foot  of  this  Y  represents  the 
northern  extremity,  and  is  formed  by  the  massive 
Mettenberg,  whose  broad  faces  of  cliff  divide  the 
two  glaciers  at  Grindehvald.     Ilalf-wav  along  the 


82       The  Playground  of  Europe 

stem  rises  the  point  called  the  Little  Schreckhorn. 
The  two  chief  summits  rise  close  together  at  the 
point  where  the  Y  forks.  The  thicker  of  the  two 
branches  represents  the  black  line  of  cliffs  running 
down  to  the  Abschwung;  the  thinner  represents 
the  range  of  the  Strahlhorner,  crossed  by  the 
Strahleck  pass  close  to  its  origin.  Mr.  Anderson, 
in  the  first  series  of  Peaks  and  Passes,  describes 
an  attempt  to  ascend  the  Schreckhorn,  made  by 
him  under  most  unfavourable  circumstances;  one 
of  his  guides,  amongst  other  misfortunes,  being 
knocked  down  by  a  falling  stone,  whilst  the  whole 
party  were  nearly  swept  away  by  an  avalanche. 
His  courage,  however,  did  not  meet  with  the  reward 
it  fully  deserved,  as  bad  weather  made  it  impossible 
for  him  to  attempt  more  than  the  Little  Schreck- 
horn, the  summit  of  whch  he  succeeded  in  reach- 
ing. A  more  successful  attack  had  been  made 
by  MM.  Desor  and  Escher  von  der  Linth,  in 
1842.  Starting  from  the  Strahleck,  they  had 
climbed,  with  considerable  difficulty,  to  a  ridge 
leading  apparently  to  the  summit  of  the  Schreck- 
horn. After  following  this  for  some  distance,  they 
were  brought  to  a  standstill  by  a  sudden  de- 
pression some  ten  or  twelve  feet  in  depth,  which 
was  succeeded  by  a  very  sharp  arete  of  snow. 
Whilst  they  were  hesitating  what  to  do,  one 
of  the  guides,  in  spite  of  a  warning  shriek  from 


Ascent  of  the  Schreckhorn  83 

his  companions,  and  without  waiting  for  a  rope, 
suddenly  sprang  down  so  as  to  alight  astride  of  the 
ridge.  They  followed  him  more  cautiously,  and, 
animated  to  the  task  by  a  full  view  of  the  summit, 
forced  their  way  slowly  along  a  very  narrow  and 
dangerous  arete.  They  reached  the  top  at  last 
triumphantly,  and,  looking  round  at  the  view, 
discovered,  to  their  no  small  disgust,  that  to  the 
north  of  them  was  another  summit.  They  had 
indeed  proved,  by  a  trigonometrical  observation, 
that  that  on  which  they  stood  was  the  highest; 
but  in  spite  of  trigonometry,  the  northern  peak 
persisted  in  looking  down  on  them.  As  it  was 
cut  off  from  them  by  a  long  and  impracticable 
arete  some  three  hundred  yards  (in  my  opinion 
more)  in  length,  they  could  do  nothing  but  re- 
turn, and  obtain  another  trigonometrical  obser- 
vation. This  time  the  northern  peak  came  out 
twenty-seven  metres  (about  eighty-eight  feet) 
the  higher.  It  was,  apparently,  the  harder  piece 
of  work.  Even  big  Ulrich  Lauener  (who,  I  must 
admit,  is  rather  given  to  croaking)  once  said  to  me, 
it  was  like  the  Matterhorn,  big  above  and  little 
below,  and  he  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
In  1861,  however,  the  prestige  of  the  mountains 
was  rapidly  declining.  Many  a  noble  peak,  which 
a  few  years  before  had  written  itself  inaccessible 
in   all  guide-books,   hotel   registers,   and    poetical 


84         The  Playground  of  Europe 

descriptions  of  the  Alps,  had  fallen  an  easy  victim 
to  the  skill  and  courage  of  Swiss  guides,  and  the 
ambition  of  their  employers.  In  spite,  therefore, 
of  the  supposed  difficulties,  I  was  strongly  at- 
tracted by  the  charms  of  this  last  unconquered 
stronghold  of  the  Oberland.  Was  there  not  some 
infinitesimal  niche  in  history  to  be  occupied  by 
its  successful  assailant?  The  Schreckhorn  will 
probably  outlast  even  the  British  Constitution 
and  the  Thirty-nine  Articles:  so  long  as  it  lasts, 
and  so  long  as  Murray  and  Baedeker  describe  its 
wonders  for  the  benefit  of  successive  generations 
of  tourists,  its  first  conqueror  may  be  carried 
down  to  posterity  by  clinging  to  its  skirts.  If 
ambition  whispered  some  such  nonsense  to  my 
ear,  and  if  I  did  not  reply  that  we  are  all  destined 
to  immortal  fame  so  long  as  parish  registers  and 
the  second  column  of  the  Times  survives,  I  hope 
to  be  not  too  severely  blamed.  I  was  old  enough 
to  know  better,  it  is  true;  but  this  happened  some 
years  ago:  and  since  then  I  have  had  time  to 
repent  of  many  things. 

Accordingly,  on  the  night  of  August  13,  1861,  I 
found  myself  the  occupant  of  a  small  hole  under  a 
big  rock  near  the  northern  foot  of  the  Strahleck. 
Owing  to  bad  diplomacy,  I  was  encumbered  with 
three  guides — Peter  and  Christian  Michel,  and 
Christian  Kaufmann- — all  of  them  good  men,  but 


Ascent  of  the  Schreckhorn  85 

one,  if  not  two,  too  many.  As  the  grey  morning 
light  gradually  stole  into  our  burrow,  1  woke  up 
with  a  sense  of  lively  impatience — not  diminished, 
perhaps,  by  the  fact  that  one  side  of  me  seemed 
to  be  permanently  impressed  with  every  knob 
in  a  singularly  cross-grained  bit  of  rock,  and  the 
other  with  every  bone  in  Kaufmann's  body. 
Swallowing  a  bit  of  bread,  I  declared  myself  ready. 
An  early  start  is  of  course  always  desirable  before 
a  hard  day's  work,  but  it  rises  to  be  almost 
agreeable  after  a  hard  night's  rest.  This  did  not 
seem  to  be  old  Peter  Michel's  opinion.  He  is  the 
very  model  of  a  short,  thick,  broad  mountaineer, 
with  the  constitution  of  a  piece  of  seasoned  oak; 
a  placid,  not  to  say  stolid,  temper;  and  an  illimit- 
able appetite.  He  sat  opposite  me  for  some  half- 
hour,  calmly  munching  bread  and  cheese,  and  meat 
and  butter,  at  four  in  the  morning,  on  a  frozen  bit 
of  turf,  under  a  big  stone,  as  if  it  were  the  most 
reasonable  thing  a  man  could  do  under  the  circum- 
stances, and  as  though  such  things  as  the  Schreck- 
horn and  impatient  tourists  had  no  existence.  A 
fortnight  before,  as  I  was  told,  he  had  calmly  sat 
out  all  night,  half-way  up  the  Eiger,  with  a  stream 
of  freezing  water  trickling  over  him,  accompanied 
by  an  unlucky  German,  whose  feel  received 
frost-bites  on  thai  occasion  from  which  they  were 
still  in  danger,  while  old  .Michel  had  not  a  chilblain. 


86  The  Playground  of  Europe 

And  here  let  me  make  one  remark,  to  save  re- 
petition in  the  following  pages.  I  utterly  repudi- 
ate the  doctrine  that  Alpine  travellers  are  or  ought 
to  be  the  heroes  of  Alpine  adventures.  The  true 
way  at  least  to  describe  all  my  Alpine  ascents 
is  that  Michel  or  Anderegg  or  Lauener  succeeded 
in  performing  a  feat  requiring  skill,  strength,  and 
courage,  the  difficulty  of  which  was  much  increased 
by  the  difficulty  of  taking  with  him  his  knapsack 
and  his  employer.  If  any  passages  in  the  succeed- 
ing pages  convey  the  impression  that  I  claim 
any  credit  except  that  of  following  better  men  than 
myself  with  decent  ability,  I  disavow  them  in 
advance  and  do  penance  for  them  in  my  heart. 
Other  travellers  have  been  more  independent : 
I  speak  for  myself  alone.  Meanwhile  I  will  only 
delay  my  narrative  to  denounce  one  other  heresy 
— that,  namely,  which  asserts  that  guides  are  a 
nuisance.  Amongst  the  greatest  of  Alpine  plea- 
sures is  that  of  learning  to  appreciate  the  capaci- 
ties and  cultivate  the  good-will  of  a  singularly 
intelligent  and  worthy  class  of  men.  I  wish  that 
all  men  of  the  same  class,  in  England  and  else- 
where, were  as  independent,  well-informed,  and 
trustworthy  as  Swiss  mountaineers!  And  now, 
having  discharged  my  conscience,  1  turn  to  my 
story. 

At  last,  about  half-past  four,  we  got  deliberately 


Ascent  of  the  Schreckhorn  87 

under  way.  Our  first  two  or  three  hours'  work 
was  easy  enough.  The  two  summits  of  the 
Schreckhorn  form  as  it  were  the  horns  of  a  vast 
crescent  of  precipice  which  runs  round  a  secondary 
glacier,  on  the  eastern  bank  of  the  Grindelwald 
glacier.  This  glacier  is  skirted  on  the  south 
by  the  ordinary  Strahleck  route.  The  cliffs  above 
it  are  for  the  most  part  bare  of  snow,  and  scored 
by  deep  trenches  or  gullies,  the  paths  of  avalanches, 
and  of  the  still  more  terrible  showers  of  stones 
which,  in  the  later  part  of  the  day,  may  be  seen 
every  five  minutes  discharged  down  the  flank  of  the 
mountain.  I  was  very  sanguine  that  we  should 
reach  the  arete  connecting  the  two  peaks.  I  felt 
doubtful,  however,  whether  we  could  pass  along 
it  to  the  summit,  as  it  might  be  interrupted  by 
some  of  those  gaps  which  so  nearly  stopped 
Desor's  party.  Old  Michel  indeed  had  declared, 
on  a  reconnoitring  expedition  I  had  made  with 
him  the  day  before,  that  he  believed,  "steif  unci 
jest,"  that  we  could  get  up.  But  as  we  climbed 
the  glacier  my  faith  in  Michel  and  Co.  began  to 
sink,  not  from  any  failing  in  their  skill  as  guides, 
but  from  the  enormous  appetites  which  they  Still 
chose  to  exhibit.  Every  driblet  of  water  seemed 
to  be  inseparably  connected  in  their  minds  with 
a  drop  of  brandy,  and  every  fiat  stone  suggested 
an  open-air  picnic.     Perhaps  my  impatience  rather 


88         The  Playground  of  Europe 

exaggerated  their  delinquencies  in  this  direction ; 
but  it  was  not  till  past  seven,  when  we  had 
deposited  the  heavy  part  of  our  baggage  and,  to 
my  delight,  most  of  the  provisions  on  a  ledge 
near  the  foot  of  the  rocks,  that  they  fairly  woke  up, 
and  settled  to  their  task.  From  that  time  I  had 
no  more  complaints  to  make.  We  soon  got  hard 
and  steadily  at  work,  climbing  the  rocks  which 
form  the  southern  bank  of  one  of  the  deeply-carved 
gullies  of  which  I  have  spoken.  It  seemed  clear 
to  me  that  the  summit  of  the  Schreckhorn,  which 
was  invisible  to  us  at  present,  was  on  the  other 
side  of  this  ravine,  its  northern  bank  being  in  fact 
formed  by  a  huge  buttress  running  straight  down 
from  the  peak.  This  buttress  was  cut  into 
steps,  by  cliffs  so  steep  as  to  be  perfectly  imprac- 
ticable; in  fact,  I  believe  that  in  one  place  it  abso- 
lutely overhung.  It  was  therefore  necessary  to 
keep  to  the  other  side;  but  I  felt  an  unpleasant 
suspicion  that  the  head  of  the  ravine  might  corre- 
spond with  an  impracticable  gap  in  the  arete. 

Meanwhile  we  had  simply  a  steady  piece  of 
rock-climbing.  Christian  Michel,  a  first-rate  crags- 
man, led  the  way.  Kaufmann  followed,  and,  as 
we  clung  to  the  crannies  and  ledges  of  the  rock, 
relieved  his  mind  by  sundry  sarcasms  as  to  the 
length  of  arm  and  leg  which  enabled  me  to  reach 
points  of  support  without  putting  my  limbs  out  of 


Ascent  of  the  Schreckhorn  89 

joint' — an  advantage,  to  say  the  truth,  which 
he  could  well  afford  to  give  away.  The  rocks 
were  steep  and  slippery,  and  occasionally  covered 
with  a  coat  of  ice.  We  were  frequently  flattened 
out  against  the  rocks,  like  beasts  of  ill  repute  nailed 
to  a  barn,  with  fingers  and  toes  inserted  into  four 
different  cracks  which  tested  the  elasticity  of  our 
frames  to  the  uttermost.  Still  our  progress  though 
slow  was  steady,  and  would  have  been  agreeable 
if  only  our  minds  could  have  been  at  ease  with  re- 
gard to  that  detestable  ravine.  We  could  not 
obtain  a  glimpse  of  the  final  ridge,  and  we  might 
be  hopelessly  stopped  at  the  last  step.  Meanwhile, 
as  we  looked  round,  we  could  see  the  glacier 
basins  gradually  sinking,  and  the  sharp  pyramid 
of  the  Finstcraarhom  shooting  upwards  above 
them.  Gradually,  too,  the  distant  ranges  of  Alps 
climbed  higher  and  higher  up  the  southern 
horizon.  From  Mont  Blanc  to  Monte  Rosa,  and 
away  to  the  distant  Bernina,  ridge  beyond  ridge 
rose  into  the  sky,  with  many  a  well-remembered 
old  friend  amongst  them.  In  two  or  three 
hours'  work  we  had  risen  high  enough  to  look 
over  the  ridge  connecting  the  two  peaks,  down 
the  long  reaches  of  the  Aar  glaciers.  A  few 
minutes  afterwards  we  caught  sight  of  a  row  of 
black  dots  creeping  over  the  snows  of  the  Strah- 
leck.      With  a  telescope  1  could  just  distinguish  a 


9°         The  Playground  of  Europe 

friend  whom  I  had  met  the  day  before  at  Grindel- 
wald.  A  loud  shout  from  us  brought  back  a 
faint  reply  or  echo.  We  were  already  high  above 
the  pass.  Still,  however,  that  last  arete  remained 
pertinaciously  invisible.  A  few  more  steps,  if 
steps  is  a  word  applicable  to  progression  by  hands 
as  well  as  feet,  placed  us  at  last  on  the  great  ridge 
of  the  mountain,  looking  down  upon  the  Lauteraar 
Sattel.  But  the  ridge  rose  between  us  and  the 
peak  into  a  kind  of  knob,  which  allowed  only  a 
few  yards  of  it  to  be  visible.  The  present  route, 
as  I  believe,  leads  to  the  ridge  at  a  point  farther 
from  the  summit  of  the  mountain.  We  were, 
however,  near  the  point  where  a  late  melancholy 
accident  will,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  impress  upon  future 
travellers  the  necessity  of  a  scrupulous  adherence 
to  all  recognised  precautions.  The  scene  was 
in  itself  significant  enough  for  men  of  weak  nerves. 
Taking  a  drop  of  brandy  all  round,  we  turned  to 
the  assault,  feeling  that  a  few  yards  more  would 
decide  the  question.  On  our  right  hand  the  long 
slopes  of  snow  ran  down  towards  the  Lauteraar 
Sattel,  as  straight  as  if  the  long  furrows  on  their 
surface  had  been  drawn  by  a  ruler.  They  were  in 
a  most  ticklish  state.  The  snow  seemed  to  be 
piled  up  like  loose  sand,  at  the  highest  angle  of 
rest,  and  almost  without  cohesion.  The  fall  of 
a  pebble  or  a  handful  of  snow  was  sufficient  to 


Ascent  of  the  Schreckhorn  91 

detach  a  layer,  which  slid  smoothly  down  the  long 
slopes  with  a  low  ominous  hiss.  Clinging,  how- 
ever, to  the  rocks  which  formed  the  crest  of  the 
ridge,  we  dug  our  feet  as  far  as  possible  into  the 
older  snow  beneath,  and  crept  cautiously  along. 
As  soon  as  there  was  room  on  the  arete,  we  took 
to  the  rocks  again,  and  began  with  breathless  ex- 
pectation climbing  the  knob  of  which  I  have 
spoken.  The  top  of  the  mountain  could  not  re- 
main much  longer  concealed.  A  few  yards  more, 
and  it  came  full  in  view.  The  next  step  revealed 
to  me  not  only  the  mountain  top,  but  a  lovely  and 
almost  level  ridge  which  connected  it  with  our 
standing-point.  We  had  won  the  victory,  and, 
with  a  sense  of  intense  satisfaction,  attacked  the 
short  ridge  which  still  divided  us  from  our  object. 
It  is  melancholy  to  observe  the  shockingly  bad 
state  of  repair  of  the  higher  peaks,  and  the  present 
was  no  exception  to  the  rule.  Loose  stones  rattled 
down  the  mountain  sides  at  every  step,  and  the 
ridge  itself  might  be  compared  to  the  ingenious 
contrivance  which  surmounts  the  walls  of  gaols 
with  a  nicely  balanced  pile  of  loose  bricks- — sup- 
posing the  interstices  in  this  case  to  be  filled 
with  snow.  We  crept,  however,  cautiously  along 
the  parapet,  glancing  down  the  mighty  cliffs 
beneath  us,  and  then,  at  two  steps  more,  we 
proudly  stepped    (at    11.40)    on  to  the  little  level 


92  The  Playground  of  Europe 

platform  which  forms  the  "  allerhochste  Spitzc" 
of  the  Sehreckhorn. 

I  need  hardly  remark  that  our  first  proceeding 
was  to  give  a  hearty  cheer,  which  was  faintly 
returned  by  the  friends  who  were  still  watching 
us  from  the  Strahleck.  My  next  was  to  sit  down, 
in  the  warm  and  perfectly  calm  summer  air, 
to  enjoy  a  pipe  and  the  beauties  of  nature,  whilst 
my  guides  erected  a  cairn  of  stones  round  a  large 
black  flag  which  we  had  brought  up  to  confute 
cavillers.  Mountain  tops  are  always  more  or  less 
impressive  in  one  way- — namely,  from  the  giddy 
cliffs  which  surround  them.  But  the  more  distant 
prospects  from  them  may  be  divided  into  two 
classes:  those  from  the  Wetterhorn,  Jungfrau, 
or  Monte  Rosa,  and  other  similar  mountains, 
which  include  on  one  side  the  lowland  countries, 
forming  a  contrast  to  the  rough  mountain  ranges; 
and  those  from  mountains  standing,  not  on  the 
edge,  but  in  the  very  centre  of  the  regions  of  frost 
and  desolation.  The  Sehreckhorn  (like  the  Fin- 
steraarhorn)  is  a  grand  example  of  this  latter  kind. 
Four  great  glaciers  seem  to  radiate  from  its  base. 
The  great  Oberland  peaks — the  Finsteraarhorn, 
Jungfrau,  Monch,  Eiger,  and  Wetterhorn— stand 
round  in  a  grim  circle,  showing  their  bare  faces  of 
precipitous  rock  across  the  dreary  wastes  of  snow. 
At  your  feet  are  the  "urns  of  the  silent  snow," 


Ascent  of  the  Schreckhorn  93 

from  which  the  glaciers  of  Grindelwald  draw  the 
supplies  that  enable  them  to  descend  far  into  the 
regions  of  cultivated  land,  trickling  down  like 
great  damp  icicles,  of  insignificant  mass  com- 
pared with  these  mighty  reservoirs.  You  are  in 
the  centre  of  a  whole  district  of  desolation,  sug- 
gesting a  landscape  from  Greenland,  or  an  imagi- 
nary picture  of  England  in  the  glacial  epoch, 
with  shores  yet  un visited  by  the  irrepressible  Gulf 
Stream.  The  charm  of  such  views- — little  as  they 
are  generally  appreciated  by  professed  admirers 
of  the  picturesque- — is  to  my  taste  unique,  though 
not  easily  explained  to  unbelievers.  They  have  a 
certain  soothing  influence  like  slow  and  stately 
music,  or  one  of  the  strange  opium  dreams 
described  by  De  Quincey.  If  his  journey  in  the 
mail-coach  could  have  led.  him  through  an  Alpine 
pass  instead  of  the  quiet  Cumberland  hills,  he 
would  have  seen  visions  still  more  poetical 
than  that  of  the  minister  in  the  "dream  fugue." 
Unable  as  I  am  to  bend  his  bow,  I  can  only  say 
that  there  is  something  almost  unearthly  in  the 
sight  of  enormous  spaces  of  hill  and  plain,  appar- 
ently unsubstantial  as  a  mountain  mist,  glimmer- 
ing away  to  the  indistinct  horizon,  and  as  it  were 
spellbound  by  an  absolute  and  eternal  silence. 
The  sentiment  may  be  very  different  when  a  storm 
is  rainmi  and  nothing  is  visible  but  the  black  ribs 


94         The  Playground  of  Europe 

of  the  mountains  glaring  at  you  through  rents  in 
the  clouds;  but  on  that  perfect  day  on  the  top  of 
the  Schreckhorn,  where  not  a  wreath  of  vapour 
was  to  be  seen  under  the  whole  vast  canopy  of 
the  sky,  a  delicious  lazy  sense  of  calm  repose  was 
the  appropriate  frame  of  mind.  One  felt  as  if  some 
immortal  being,  with  no  particular  duties  upon 
his  hands,  might  be  calmly  sitting  upon  those 
desolate  rocks  and  watching  the  little  shadowy 
wrinkles  of  the  plain,  that  were  really  mountain 
ranges,  rise  and  fall  through  slow  geological 
epochs.  I  had  no  companion  to  disturb  my 
reverie  or  introduce  discordant  associations.  An 
hour  passed  like  a  few  minutes,  but  there  were 
still  difficulties  to  be  encountered  which  would 
have  made  any  longer  delay  unadvisable.  I 
therefore  added  a  few  touches  to  our  cairn,  and 
then  turned  to  the  descent. 

It  is  a  general  opinion,  with  which  I  do  not  agree, 
that  the  descent  of  slippery  or  difficult  rock  is 
harder  than  the  ascent.  My  guides,  however, 
seemed  to  be  fully  convinced  of  it ;  or  perhaps  they 
merely  wished  to  prove,  in  opposition  to  my 
sceptical  remarks,  that  there  was  some  use  in 
having  three  guides.  Accordingly,  whilst  Christ- 
ian Michel  led  the  way,  old  Peter  and  Kaufmann 
persisted  in  planting  themselves  steadily  in  some 
safe  nook,  and  then  hauling  at  the  rope  round 


Ascent  of  the  Schreckhorn  95 

my  waist.  By  a  violent  exertion  and  throwing 
all  my  weight  on  to  the  rope,  I  gradually  got 
myself  paid  slowly  out,  and  descended  to  the 
next  ledge,  feeling  as  if  I  should  be  impressed 
with  a  permanent  groove  to  which  ropes  might  be 
fixed  in  future.  The  process  was  laborious,  not 
to  say  painful,  and  I  was  sincerely  glad  when  the 
idea  dawned  upon  the  good  fellows  that  I  might 
be  trusted  to  use  my  limbs  more  freely.  Surtout 
point  de  zelc  is  occasionally  a  good  motto  for 
guides  as  well  as  ministers. 

I  have  suffered  worse  things  on  awkward 
places  from  the  irregular  enthusiasm  of  my 
companions.  Never  shall  I  forget  a  venerable 
guide  at  Kippel,  whose  glory  depended  on  the 
fact  that  his  name  was  mentioned  in  The  Book, 
viz.,  Murray's  Guide.  Having  done  nothing  all 
day  to  maintain  his  reputation,  he  seized  a  fav- 
ourable opportunity  as  we  were  descending  a 
narrow  arete  of  snow,  and  suddenly  clutching 
my  coat-tails,  on  pretence  of  steadying  me,  brought 
me  with  a  jerk  into  a  sitting  position.  My  urgent 
remonstrances  only  produced  bursts  of  patois^ 
mixed  with  complacent  chucklings,  and  I  was  forced 
to  resign  myself  to  the  fate  of  being  pulled  back- 
wards, all  in  a  heap,  about  every  third  step  along 
the  arete.  The  process  gave  the  old  gentleman 
such  evident  pleasure  that  1  eeased  to  complain. 


gd  The  Playground  of  Europe 

On  the  present  occasion  my  guides  were  far 
more  reasonable,  and  I  would  never  complain  of 
a  little  extra  caution.  We  were  soon  going  along 
steadily  enough,  though  the  slippery  nature  of  the 
rocks,  and  the  precautions  necessary  to  avoid 
dislodging  loose  stones,  made  our  progress  rather 
slow.  At  length,  however,  with  that  instinct 
which  good  guides  always  show,  and  in  which 
amateurs  are  most  deficient,  we  came  exactly 
to  the  point  where  we  had  left  our  knapsacks. 
We  were  now  standing  close  to  the  ravine  I  have 
mentioned.  Suddenly  I  heard  a  low  hiss  close 
by  me,  and  looking  round  saw  a  stream  of  snow 
shooting  rapidly  down  the  gully,  like  a  long  white 
serpent.  It  was  the  most  insidious  enemy  of  the 
mountaineer — an  avalanche ;  not  such  as  thunders 
down  the  cliffs  of  the  Jungfrau,  ready  to  break 
every  bone  in  your  body,  but  the  calm  malicious 
avalanche  which  would  take  you  quietly  off  your 
legs,  wrap  you  up  in  a  sheet  of  snow,  and  bury 
you  in  a  crevasse  for  a  few  hundred  years,  without 
making  any  noise  about  it.  The  stream  was  so 
narrow  and  well  defined  that  I  could  easily 
have  stepped  across  it ;  still  it  was  rather  annoying, 
inasmuch  as  immediately  below  us  was  a  broad 
fringe  of  snow  ending  in  a  bergsehrund,  the  whole 
being  in  what  travellers  used  to  represent  as  the 
normal  condition  of  mountain   snow — such  that 


Ascent  of  the  Schreckhorn  97 

a  stone,  or  even  a  hasty  expression,  rashly  dropped, 
would  probably  start  an  avalanche.  Christian 
Michel  showed  himself  equal  to  the  occasion. 
Choosing  a  deep  trench  in  the  snow- — the  channel 
of  one  of  these  avalanches- — from  which  the  upper 
layer  of  snow  was  cut  away,  he  turned  his  face  to 
the  slope  and  dug  his  toes  deeply  into  the  firmer 
snow  beneath.  We  followed,  trying  in  every 
way  to  secure  our  hold  of  the  treacherous  footing. 
Every  little  bit  of  snow  that  we  kicked  aside 
started  a  young  avalanche  on  its  own  account. 
By  degrees,  however,  we  reached  the  edge  of  a 
very  broad  and  repulsive-looking  bergschrund. 
Unfixing  the  rope,  we  gave  Kaufmann  one  end, 
and  sent  him  carefully  across  a  long  and  very 
shaky-looking  bridge  of  snow.  He  got  safely 
across,  and  we  cautiously  followed  him,  one  by 
one.  As  the  last  man  reached  the  other  side,  we 
felt  that  our  dangers  were  over.  It  was  now 
about  five  o'clock. 

We  agreed  to  descend  by  the  Strahleck.  Great 
delay  was  caused  by  our  discovering  that  even 
on  the  nearly  level  surface  there  was  a  sheet  of  ice 
formed,  which  required  many  a  weary  step  to  be 
cut.  It  was  long  before  we  could  reach  the  rocks 
and  take  off  the  rope  for  a  race  home  down  the 
slopes  of  snow. 

As  we   reached   our   burrow  we   were   "ratified 


98         The  Playground  of  Europe 

with  one  of  the  most  glorious  sights  of  the  moun- 
tains. A  huge  eloud,  which  looked  at  least  as 
lofty  as  the  Eiger,  rested  with  one  extremity 
of  its  base  on  the  Eiger,  and  the  other  on  the 
Mettenberg,  shooting  its  white  pinnacles  high 
up  into  the  sunshine  above.  Through  the  mighty 
arched  gateway  thus  formed,  we  could  see  far 
over  the  successive  ranges  of  inferior  mountains, 
standing  like  flat  shades  one  behind  another. 
The  lower  slopes  of  the  Mettenberg  glowed  with 
a  deep  blood-red,  and  the  more  distant  hills  passed 
through  every  shade  of  blue,  purple,  and  rose- 
coloured  hues,  into  the  faint  blue  of  the  distant 
Jura,  with  one  gleam  of  green  sky  beyond.  In 
the  midst  of  the  hills  the  Lake  of  Thun  lay,  shining 
like  gold.  A  few  peals  of  thunder  echoed  along 
the  glacier  valley,  telling  us  of  the  storm  that 
was  raging  over  Grindelwald 

It  was  half-past  seven  when  we  reached  our 
lair.  We  consequently  had  to  pass  another  night 
there — a  necessity  which  would  have  been  easily 
avoided  by  a  little  more  activity  in  the  morning. 

It  is  a  laudable  custom  to  conclude  narratives 
of  mountain  ascents  by  a  compliment  to  the 
guides  who  have  displayed  their  skill  and  courage. 
Here,  however,  I  shall  venture  to  deviate  from  the 
ordinary  practice  by  recording  an  anecdote, 
which  may  be  instructive,  and  which  well  deserves 


Ascent  of  the  Schreckhorn  99 

to  be  remembered  by  visitors  to  Grindelwald. 
The  guides  of  the  Oberland  have  an  occasional 
weakness,  which  Englishmen  cannot  condemn  with 
a  very  clear  conscience,  for  the  consumption  of 
strong  drink;  and  it  happened  that  the  younger 
Michel  was  one  day  descending  the  well-known 
path  which  leads  from  the  chalet  above  the  so- 
called  Eismeer  to  Grindelwald  in  an  unduly 
convivial  frame  of  mind.  Just  above  the  point 
where  mules  are  generally  left,  the  path  runs 
close  to  the  edge  of  an  overhanging  cliff,  the  rocks 
below  having  been  scooped  out  by  the  glacier  in 
old  days,  when  the  glacier  was  several  hundred 
feet  above  its  present  level.  The  dangerous 
place  is  guarded  by  a  wooden  rail,  which  unluckily 
terminates  before  the  cliff  is  quite  passed.  Michel, 
guiding  himself  as  it  may  be  supposed  by  the 
rail,  very  naturally  stepped  over  the  cliff  when 
the  guidance  was  prematurely  withdrawn.  I 
cannot  state  the  vertical  height  through  which  he 
must  have  fallen  on  to  a  bed  of  hard  uncompromis- 
ing rock.  I  think,  however,  that  I  am  within 
the  mark  in  saying  that  it  cannot  have  been  much 
less  than  a  hundred  feet.  It  would  have  been  a 
less  dangerous  experiment  to  step  from  the  roof 
of  the  tallest  house  in  London  to  the  kerbstone 
below.  Michel  lay  at  the  bottom  all  night,  and 
next  morning  shook  himself,  got  up,  and  walked 


ioo         The  Playground  of  Europe 

home  sober,  and  with  no  broken  bones.  I  submit 
two  morals  for  the  choice  of  my  readers,  being 
quite  unable,  after  much  reflection,  to  decide 
which  is  the  more  appropriate.  The  first  is, 
Don't  get  drunk  when  you  have  to  walk  along  the 
edge  of  an  Alpine  cliff;  the  second  is,  Get  drunk 
if  you  are  likely  to  fall  over  an  Alpine  cliff.  In 
any  case,  see  that  Michel  is  in  his  normal  state  of 
sobriety  when  you  take  him  for  a  guide,  and  carry 
the  brandy-flask  in  your  own  pocket. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  ROTHHORN 

The  little  village  of  Zinal  lies,  as  I  need  hardly 
inform  my  readers,  deep  in  the  recesses  of  the 
Pennine  chain.  Some  time  in  the  Middle  Ages 
(I  speak  on  the  indisputable  authority  of  Murray) 
the  inhabitants  of  the  surrounding  valleys  were 
converted  to  Christianity  by  the  efforts  of  a  bishop 
of  Sion.  From  that  time  till  the  year  1864  I 
know  little  of  its  history,  with  the  exception  of 
two  facts — one,  that  till  lately  the  natives  used 
holes  in  their  tables  as  a  substitute  for  plates,  each 
member  of  the  family  depositing  promiscuously 
his  share  of  the  family  meals  in  his  own  particu- 
lar cavity ;  the  other,  that  a  German  traveller  was 
murdered  between  Zinal  and  Evolena  in  1863. 
This  information,  however,  meagre  as  it  is,  illus- 
trates the  singular  retirement  from  the  world  of 
these  exquisite  valleys.  The  great  road  of  the 
Simplon  has  for  years  carried  crowds  of  travellers 
past  the  opening  of  their  gorges.  Before  its  con- 
struction, Rousseau  and  Goethe  had  celebrated 
the  charms  of  the  main  valley.     During  the  last 

IOI 


102       The  Playground  of  Europe 

twenty  years  Zermatt  has  been  the  centre  of 
attraction  for  thousands  of  tourists.  And  yet,  so 
feeble  is  the  curiosity  of  mankind,  and  so  sheeplike 
are  the  habits  of  the  ordinary  traveller,  that  these 
remote  fastnesses  still  retain  much  of  their  primi- 
tive seclusion.  Evolena,  Zinal,  and  the  head  of  the 
Turtman  Thai  are  still  visited  only  by  a  few 
enthusiasts.  Even  the  Saas  valley,  easily  accessi- 
ble as  it  is,  and  leading  to  one  of  the  most  justly 
celebrated  of  Alpine  passes,  attracts  scarcely  one 
in  a  hundred  of  the  many  visitors  to  the  twin  valley 
of  Zermatt.  And  yet  those  who  have  climbed 
the  slopes  behind  the  village  and  seen  the  huge 
curtain  of  ice  let  down  from  the  summits  of  the 
mighty  range  between  the  Dom  and  Monte  Rosa, 
cutting  off  half  the  horizon  as  with  a  more  than 
gigantic  screen,  will  admit  that  its  beauties  are 
almost  unique  in  the  Alps.  Mr.  Wills  did  justice 
to  them  long  ago;  but,  in  spite  of  all  that  can  be 
said,  the  tourist  stream  flows  in  its  old  channels 
and  leaves  on  either  side  regions  of  enchanting 
beauty,  but  almost  as  little  visited  as  the  remote 
valleys  of  Norway.  I  remember  a  striking  scene 
near  Griiben,  in  the  Turtman  Thai,  which  curiously 
exemplified  this  fact.  We  were  in  a  little  glade 
surrounded  by  pine  forest,  and  with  the  Alpine 
rose  clustering  in  full  bloom  round  the  scattered 
boulders.     Above  us  rose  the  Weisshorn  in  one  of 


The  Rothhorn  103 

the  most  sublime  aspects  of  that  almost  faultless 
mountain.  The  Turtman  glacier,  broad  and  white, 
with  deep  regular  crevasses,  formed  a  noble  ap- 
proach, like  the  staircase  of  some  superb  palace. 
Above  this  rose  the  huge  mass  of  the  mountain, 
firm  and  solid  as  though  its  architect  had  wished 
to  eclipse  the  Pyramids.  And,  higher  still,  its  lofty 
crest,  jagged  and  apparently  swaying  from  side 
to  side,  seemed  to  be  tossed  into  the  blue  at- 
mosphere far  above  the  reach  of  mortal  man. 
Nowhere  have  I  seen  a  more  delicate  combination 
of  mountain  massiveness,  with  soaring  and  deli- 
cately carved  pinnacles  pushed  to  the  verge  of 
extravagance.  Yet  few  people  know  this  side  of 
a  peak,  which  every  one  has  admired  from  the 
Riff  el.  The  only  persons  who  shared  our  view, 
though  they  could  hardly  share  our  wonder,  were  a 
little  group  of  peasants  standing  round  a  small 
chalet.  A  herd  of  cows  had  been  collected,  and 
a  priest  in  tattered  garments  was  sprinkling 
them  with  hoi}-  water.  They  received  us  much 
as  we  might  have  been  received  in  the  least  fre- 
quented of  European  districts,  and  it  was  hard 
to  remember  that  we  were  within  a  short  walk 
of  the  main  post  route  and  Mr.  Cook's  tourists. 
We  seemed  to  have  stepped  into  the  Middle  Ages, 
though  I  fancied  that  some  shade  of  annoyance 
showed  itself  on  the  faces  of  the  party,  as  of  men 


104        The  Playground  of  Europe 

surprised  in  a  rather  superstitious  observance. 
Perhaps  they  had  a  dim  impression  that  we  might 
be  smiling  in  our  sleeves,  and  knew  that  beyond 
their  mountain  wall  were  sometimes  to  be  seen 
daring  sceptics,  who  doubted  the  efficacy  of  holy 
water  as  a  remedy  for  rinderpest.  We  of  course 
expressed  no  opinion  upon  the  subject,  and  passed 
on  with  a  friendly  greeting,  reflecting  how  a  trifling 
inequality  in  the  earth's  surface  may  be  the 
means  of  preserving  the  relics  of  extinct  modes  of 
thought.  But,  for  that  matter,  a  London  lane 
or  an  old  college  wall  may  be  as  effectual  a  pro- 
phylactic: even  a  properly  cut  coat  is  powerful 
in  repelling  contagion. 

Leaving  such  meditations,  I  may  remark  that 
Swiss  enterprise  has  begun  to  penetrate  these 
retired  valleys.  It  is  a  mystery,  of  difficult  solu- 
tion, how  the  spiders  which  live  in  certain  retired 
and,  as  we  would  think,  flyless  corners  of  ancient 
libraries,  preserve  their  existence;  but  it  is  still 
harder  to  discover  how  innkeepers  in  these  rarely 
trodden  valleys  derive  sufficient  supplies  from  the 
mere  waifs  and  strays  that  are  thrown,  as  it  were, 
from  the  main  body  of  tourists.  However  that 
may  be,  a  certain  M.  Epinay  maintains  a  hospita- 
ble inn  at  Zinal,  which  has  since  been  much 
enlarged ;  and  the  arrival  of  Grove,  Macdonald,  and 
myself,  with  our  guides  Melchior  and  Jacob  Andcr- 


my 


t 


V, 


X 


^ 


The  Rothhorn  105 

egg,  in  August,  1864,  rather  more  than  doubled 
the  resident  population.  M.  Epinay's  inn,  I  may 
remark,  is  worthy  of  the  highest  praise.  It  is  true 
that  the  accommodation  was  then  limited.  Mac- 
donald  and  Grove  had  to  sleep  in  two  cupboards 
opening  out  of  the  coffee-room,  whilst  I  occupied 
a  bed  which  was  the  most  conspicuous  object  of 
furniture  in  the  coffee-room  itself.  The  only 
thing  I  could  complain  of  was  that  whenever 
I  sat  up  suddenly  I  brought  my  head  into  violent 
contact  with  the  ceiling.  This  peculiarity  was 
owing  to  a  fourth  bed,  which  generally  lurked 
beneath  the  legs  of  my  rather  lofty  couch,  but 
could  be  drawn  out  on  due  occasion.  The  merits 
of  the  establishment  in  other  respects  were 
manifold.  Above  all,  M.  Epinay  is  an  excellent 
cook,  and  provided  us  daily  with  dinners  which — 
I  almost  shrink  from  saying  it — were  decidedly 
superior  to  those  of  my  excellent  friend  M.  Seiler, 
at  Zermatt.  Inns,  however,  change  almost  as 
rapidly  as  dynasties,  and  I  do  not  extend  these 
remarks  to  the  present  day.  Finally,  the  room 
boasted  of  one  of  the  few  decent  sofas  in  Switzer- 
land. It  is  true  that  it  was  only  four  feet  long, 
and  terminated  by  two  lofty  barriers;  but  it  was 
soft,  and  had  cushions — an  unprecedented  luxury, 
so  far  as  my  Alpine  knowledge  extends.  The 
minute    criticism    of    M.    Epinay's    establishment 


106        The  Playground  of  Europe 

is  due  to  the  fact  that  we  spent  there  three  days 
of  enforced  idleness. 

Nothing  is  more  delightful  than  fine  weather 
in  the  Alps;  but,  as  a  general  rule,  the  next  thing 
to  it  is  bad  weather  in  the  Alps.  There  is  scarcely 
a  day  in  summer  when  a  man  in  ordinary  health 
need  be  confined  to  the  house;  and  even  in  the 
dreariest  state  of  the  atmosphere,  when  the  view  is 
limited  to  a  few  yards  by  driving  mists  on  some 
lofty  pasturage,  there  are  infinite  beauties  of 
detail  to  be  discovered  by  persons  of  humble 
minds.  Indeed,  on  looking  back  to  days  spent 
in  the  mountains,  I  sometimes  think  that  the 
most  enjoyable  have  been,  not  those  of  unbroken 
sunshine,  but  those  on  which  one  was  forcibly 
confined  to  admiring  some  little  vignette  of 
scenery  strangely  transfigured  by  the  background 
of  changing  cloud.  The  huge  boulder  under  which 
you  take  refuge,  the  angry  glacier  torrent  dashing 
out  of  obscurity  and  disappearing  in  a  few  yards, 
and  the  cliff  whose  summit  and  base  are  equally 
concealed  by  the  clouds,  gain  wonderfully  in 
dignity  and  mystery.  Yet  I  must  confess  that 
when  one  is  suffering  from  an  acute  attack  of  the 
climbing  fever,  and  panting  for  an  opportunity 
which  will  not  come,  the  patience  is  tried  for 
the  moment,  even  though  striking  fragments 
of  scenery  may  be  accumulating  in  the  memory. 


The  Rothhorn  107 

A  persistent  screen  of  storm}'  cloud  drove  up 
the  valley,  and  clung  stubbornly  to  the  higher 
peaks.  We  lounged  lazily  in  the  wooden  gallery, 
smoking  our  pipes  and  contemplating  the  principal 
street  of  the  village.  Once,  as  I  sat  there  peace- 
fully, a  little  pack  of  mountain  stoats  dashed  in 
full  cry  across  the  village  street;  the  object  of 
chase  was  invisible;  one  might  easily  fancy  that 
some  quaint  mountain  goblin  was  the  master  of 
the  hounds;  if  so,  he  did  not  reveal  himself  to  the 
unworthy  eyes  of  one  of  those  tourists  who  are 
frightening  him  and  his  like  from  their  native 
haunts.  Once  or  twice  an  alarm  of  natives  was 
raised;  and  we  argued  long  whether  they  were 
inhabitants,  or  merely  visitors  from  the  neighbour- 
ing Alps  come  to  see  life  in  Zinal.  I  incline  to  the 
latter  hypothesis,  being  led  thereto  from  a  con- 
sideration of  the  following  circumstance: — One 
of  our  desperate  efforts  at  amusement  was  playing 
cricket  in  the  high  street,  with  a  rail  for  a  bat, 
and  a  small  granite  boulder  for  a  ball.  My  first 
performance  was  a  brilliant  hit  to  leg  (the  only  one 
I  ever  made  in  my  life)  off  Macdonald's  bowling. 
To  my  horror  I  sent  the  ball  clean  through  the 
western  window  of  the  chapel,  which  looks  upon 
the  grande  place  of  the  village — the  scene  of  our 
match.  As  no  one  ever  could  be  found  to  receive 
damages,    I  doubt   much   whether  there  are  any 


108        The  Playground  of  Europe 

permanent  inhabitants.  Tired  of  cricket,  I  learnt 
the  visitors'  book  by  heart ;  I  studied  earnestly  the 
remarks  of  a  deaf  and  dumb  gentleman,  who, 
for  some  mysterious  reason,  has  selected  this  book 
as  the  chief  medium  of  communication  with  the 
outer  world.  I  made,  I  fear,  rather  ill-tempered 
annotations  on  some  of  my  predecessors'  remarks. 
I  even  turned  a  table  of  heights  expressed  in  metres 
into  feet,  and  have  thereby  contributed  richly 
to  the  fund  of  amusement  provided  for  scientific 
visitors  who  may  have  a  taste  for  correcting  arith- 
metical blunders.  On  Sunday  the  weather  was 
improving,  and  after  breakfast  we  lounged  up 
the  Diablons — an  easy  walk,  if  taken  from  the 
right  direction.  The  view  met  with  our  decided 
disapproval — principally,  perhaps,  because  we 
did  not  see  it,  and  partly  because  we  had  taken 
no  provisions ;  a  thunderstorm  drenched  us  during 
our  descent,  and  I  began  to  think  the  weather 
hopeless.  The  same  evening,  as  I  was  reclining 
on  the  sofa,  in  the  graceful  attitude  of  a  V,  whose 
extremities  were  represented  by  my  head  and 
feet,  and  whose  apex  was  plunged  in  the  before- 
mentioned  cushions,  the  sanguine  Macdonald  said 
that  the  weather  was  clearing  up.  My  reply  was 
expressive  of  that  utter  disbelief  with  which  a 
passenger  in  a  Channel  steamboat  resents  the 
steward's  assurance  that  Calais  is  in  sight.     Next 


The  Rothhorn  109 

morning,  however,  at  1.50  a.m.,  I  found  myself 
actually  crossing  the  meadows  which  form  the  up- 
per level  of  the  Zinal  valley.  It  was  a  cloudless 
night,  except  that  a  slight  haze  obscured  the 
distant  Oberland  ridges.  But  for  the  dishearten- 
ing influence  of  a  prolonged  sojourn  in  Zinal, 
I  might  have  been  sanguine.  As  it  was,  I  walked 
in  that  temper  of  gloomy  disgust  which  I  find 
to  be  a  frequent  concomitant  of  early  rising. 
Another  accident  soon  happened  to  damp  our 
spirits.  Macdonald  was  forced  to  give  in  to  a 
sharp  attack  of  illness,  which  totally  incapacitated 
him  for  a  difficult  expedition.  We  parted  with 
him  with  great  regret,  and  proceeded  gloomily  on 
our  way.  Poor  Macdonald  spent  the  day  dismally 
enough.  I  fear,  in  the  little  inn,  in  the  company 
of  M.  Epinay  and  certain  German  tourists. 

We  followed  the  usual  track  for  the  Trift  pass 
as  far  as  the  top  of  the  great  icefall  of  the  Durand 
glacier.  Here  we  turned  sharply  to  the  left, 
and  crossed  the  wilderness  of  decaying  rock  at  the 
foot  of  Lo  Besso.  It  is  a  strangely  wild  scene. 
The  buttress-like  mass  of  Lo  Besso  cut  off  our 
view  of  the  lower  country.  Our  path  led  across 
a  mass  of  huge  loose  rocks,  which  I  can  only  com- 
pare to  a  continuous  series  of  the  singular  monu- 
ments known  as  rocking-stones.  For  a  second  or 
two    you    balanced    yourself    on    a    mass    as    big 


no       The  Playground  of  Europe 

as  a  cottage,  and  balanced  not  only  yourself  but 
the  mass  on  which  you  stood.  As  it  canted  slowly 
over,  you  made  a  convulsive  spring,  and  lighted 
upon  another  rock  in  an  equally  unstable  position. 
If  you  were  lucky  you  recovered  yourself  by  a 
sudden  jerk,  and  prepared  for  the  next  leap. 
If  unlucky,  you  landed  with  your  knees,  nose, 
and  other  parts  of  your  person  in  contact  with 
various  lumps  of  rock,  and  rose  into  an  erect 
posture  by  another  series  of  gymnastic  contortions. 
In  fact,  my  attitudes,  at  least,  were  as  unlike 
as  possible  to  that  of  Mercury — 

New  lighted  on  a  heaven-kissing  hill. 

They  were  more  like  Mercury  shot  out  of  a  cart 
on  to  a  heap  of  rubbish.  An  hour  or  so  of  this 
work  brought  us  to  a  smooth  patch  of  rocks,  from 
which  we  obtained  our  first  view  of  the  Rothhorn, 
hitherto  shut  out  by  a  secondary  spur  of  the  Besso. 
And  here,  at  5.50  a.m.,  we  halted  for  breakfast. 
"How  beautiful  those  clouds  are!"  was  Grove's 
enthusiastic  remark  as  we  sat  down  to  our  frozen 
meal.  The  rest  of  the  party  gave  a  very  qualified 
response  to  his  admiration  of  a  phenomenon 
beautiful  in  itself,  but  ominous  of  bad  weather. 
For  my  part,  I  never  profess  to  be  in  a  good 
temper  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Christian 
morality  appears  to  me  to  become  binding  every 


The  Roth  horn  in 

morning  at  breakfast -time,  that  is,  about  9.30  a.m. 
Macdonald's  departure  had  annoyed  me.  A  more 
selfish  dislike  to  the  stones  over  which  we  had 
been  stumbling  had  put  me  out  still  further. 
But  the  bitterest  drop  in  my  cup  was  the  state  of 
the  weather.  The  sky  overhead,  indeed,  was  still 
cloudless;  but  just  before  the  Besso  eclipsed  the 
Oberland  ridges,  an  offensive  mist  had  blotted  out 
their  serrated  outline.  I  did  not  like  the  way  in 
which  the  stars  winked  at  us  just  before  their 
disappearance  in  the  sunlight.  But  worst  of  all 
was  a  heavy  mass  of  cloud  which  clung  to  the 
ridge  between  the  Dent  Blanche  and  the  Gabel- 
horn,  and  seemed  to  be  crossing  the  Col  de  Zinal, 
under  the  influence  of  a  strong  south  wind. 
The  clouds  to  which  Grove  unfeelingly  alluded 
were  a  detachment  rising  like  steam  from  a 
cauldron  above  this  lower  mass.  They  seemed 
to  gather  to  leeward  of  the  vast  cliffs  of  the  Dent 
Blanche,  and  streamed  out  from  their  shelter 
into  the  current  of  the  gale  which  evidently  raged 
above  our  heads.  At  this  moment  they  were 
tinged  with  every  shade  of  colour  that  an  Al  ine 
sunrise  can  supply.  I  have  heard  such  clouds  de- 
scribed as  "mashed  rainbow";  and  whatever 
the  nature  of  the  culinary  process,  their  glorious 
beauty  is  undeniable.  But  for  the  time  the  am- 
bition of  climbing  the  Rothhorn  had  quenched  all 


ii2         The  Playground  of  Europe 

aesthetic  influences,   and  a  sulky  growl  was  the 
only  homage  I  could  pay  them. 

Yet  one  more  vexatious  element  was  here 
intruded  into  our  lot.  We  were  in  full  view  of  the 
Rothhorn,  to  which  we  had  previously  given  a 
careful  examination  from  the  foot  of  the  Trift- 
Joch.  As  this  is  the  most  favourable  moment 
for  explaining  our  geography,  I  will  observe  that 
we  were  now  within  the  hollow  embraced  by  the 
spur  which  terminates  in  the  great  promontory 
of  Lo  Besso.  This  spur  has  its  origin  in  the 
main  ridge  which  runs  from  the  Rothhorn  towards 
the  Weisshorn,  the  point  of  articulation  being 
immediately  under  the  final  cliffs  of  the  Rothhorn. 
It  divides  the  Morning  glacier  from  the  upper 
snows  of  the  Durand  glacier.  The  mighty 
1 '  cirque ' '  enclosed  by  the  mountain  wall— studded 
in  succession  by  the  peaks  of  the  Besso,  the  Roth- 
horn, the  Gabelhorner,  the  Dent  Blanche,  and  the 
Grand  Cornier' — is  one  of  the  very  noblest  in  the 
Alps.  From  the  point  we  had  now  reached  it 
appeared  to  form  a  complete  amphitheatre,  the 
narrow  gorge  through  which  the  Durand  glacier 
emerges  into  the  Einfischthal  being  invisible.  Our 
plan  of  operations  was  to  climb  the  spur  (of  which 
I  have  already  spoken)  about  half-way  between  Lo 
Besso  and  the  Rothhorn,  and  thence  to  follow  it 
up  to  the  top  of  the  mountain.     The  difficulty  t 


The  Rothhorn  113 

as  we  had  early  foreseen,  would  begin  just  after 
the  place  where  the  spur  blended  with  the  northern 
ridge  of  the  Rothhorn.  We  had  already  examined 
with  our  telescopes  the  narrow  and  broken  arete 
which  led  upwards  from  this  point  to  the  summit. 
Its  scarped  and  perpendicular  sides,  and  the 
rocky  teeth  which  struck  up  from  its  back,  were 
sufficiently  threatening.  Melchior  had,  notwith- 
standing, spoken  with  unusual  confidence  of 
our  chance.  But  at  this  moment  the  weakest 
point  in  his  character  developed  itself.  He 
began  to  take  a  gloomy  view  of  his  prospects,  and 
to  confide  his  opinion  to  Jacob  Anderegg  in  what 
he  fondly  imagined  to  be  unintelligible  patois. 
I  understood  him  only  too  well.    "Jacob,"  he  said, 

"we  shall  get  up  to  that  rock,  and  then "  an 

ominous  shake  of  the  head  supplied  the  remainder 
of  the  sentence.  It  was  therefore  in  sulky  silence 
that,  after  half  an  hour's  halt,  I  crossed  the  snow- 
field,  reached  the  top  of  the  spur  at  7.55  a.m.,  and 
thence  ascended  the  arete  to  within  a  short  dis- 
tance of  the  anticipated  difficulty.  Our  progress 
was  tolerably  rapid,  being  only  delayed  by  the 
necessity  of  cutting  some  half-dozen  steps.  We 
were  at  a  great  height,  and  the  eye  plunged  into 
the  Zinal  valley  on  one  side,  and  to  the  little  inn 
upon  the  Riffel  on  the  other,  whilst  on  looking 
round  it  commanded  the  glacier  basin  from  which 


H4       The  Playground  of  Europe 

we  had  just  ascended.  Close  beneath  us,  to  the 
north,  was  the  col  by  which  Messrs.  Moore  and 
Whymper  had  passed  from  the  Morning  to  the 
Schallenberg  glacier.  It  was  now  9  a.m.  We  cow- 
ered under  the  rocky  parapet  which  here  strikes  up 
through  the  snow  like  a  fin  from  a  fish's  back,  and 
guarded  us  from  the  assaults  of  a  fierce  southern 
gale.  All  along  the  arete  to  this  point  I  had 
distinctly  felt  a  keen  icy  blast  penetrate  my  coat 
as  though  it  had  been  made  of  gossamer,  pierce  my 
skin,  whistle  merrily  through  my  ribs,  and,  after 
chilling  the  internal  organs,  pass  out  at  the  other 
side  with  unabated  vigour.  My  hands  were  numb, 
my  nose  was  doubtless  purple,  and  my  teeth 
played  involuntary  airs,  like  the  bones  of  a  negro 
minstrel.  Grove  seemed  to  me  to  be  more  cheerful 
than  circumstances  justified.  By  way,  therefore, 
of  reducing  his  spirits  nearer  to  freezing-point — 
or,  let  me  hope,  in  the  more  laudable  desire  of 
breaking  his  too  probable  disappointment — I  in- 
vented for  his  benefit  a  depressing  prophecy 
supposed  to  have  been  just  uttered  by  Melchior; 
and,  if  faces  can  speak  without  words,  my  gloomy 
prediction  was  not  entirely  without  justification. 
We  were  on  a  ledge  of  snow  which  formed  a  kind 
of  lean-to  against  the  highest  crest  of  precipitous 
rock.  A  little  farther  on  the  arete  made  a  slight 
elbow,  beyond  which  we  could  see  nothing.     If  the 


The  Rothhorn  115 

snowy  shelf  continued  beyond  the  elbow,  all  might 
yet  be  well.  If  not,  we  should  have  to  trust  our- 
selves to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  seamed  and 
distorted  rocks.  A  very  few  paces  settled  the 
question.  The  snow  thinned  out.  We  turned 
to  examine  the  singular  ridge  along  which  the 
only  practicable  path  must  lie.  From  its  for- 
mation it  was  impossible  to  see  more  than  a  very 
short  way  ahead.  So  steep  were  the  precipices 
on  each  side  that  to  our  imaginations  it  had  all  the 
effect  of  a  thin  wall,  bending  in  its  gradual  decay 
first  towards  one  and  then  towards  the  other  valley. 
The  steep  faces  of  rock  thus  appeared  to  overhang 
the  Schallenberg  and  Zinal  glaciers  alternately. 
The  same  process  of  decay  had  gradually  carved 
the  parapet  which  surmounted  it  into  fantastic 
pinnacles,  and  occasionally  scored  deep  channels 
in  its  sides.  It  was  covered  with  the  rocky  frag- 
ments rent  off  by  the  frost,  and  now  lying  in 
treacherous  repose,  frequently  masked  by  cushions 
of  fresh-fallen  snow.  The  cliffs  were,  at  times, 
as  smooth  as  if  they  had  been  literally  cut  out 
by  the  sweep  of  a  gigantic  knife.  But  the  smooth 
faces  were  separated  by  deep  gullies,  down  which 
the  artillery  of  falling  stones  was  evidently  accus- 
tomed to  play.  I  fear  that  I  can  very  imperfectly 
describe  the  incidents  of  our  assault  upon  this 
formidable  fortress.    Melchior  led  us  with  unfalter- 


ii 6       The  Playground  of  Europe 

ing  skill — his  spirits,  as  usual,  rising  in  proportion 
to  the  difficulty  when  the  die  had  once  been  cast. 
Three  principal  pinnacles  rose  in  front  of  us,  each 
of  which  it  was  necessary  to  turn  or  to  surmount. 
The  first  of  these  was  steepest  upon  the  Zinal  side. 
Two  deep  gullies  on  the  Zermatt  side  started  from 
points  in  the  ridge  immediately  in  front  and  in 
rear  of  the  obstacle,  and  converged  at  some  dis- 
tance beneath.  The  pinnacle  itself  was  thus 
shaped  like  a  tooth  protruding  from  a  jaw  and 
exposed  down  to  the  sockets,  and  the  two  gullies 
afforded  means  for  circumventing  it.  We  care- 
fully descended  by  one  of  these  for  some  distance, 
considerably  inconvenienced  by  the  snow  which 
lodged  in  the  deeply-cut  channels  and  concealed 
the  loose  stones.  With  every  care  it  was  im- 
possible not  occasionally  to  start  crumbling 
masses  of  rock.  The  most  ticklish  part  of  the 
operation  was  in  crossing  to  the  other  gull)-;  a 
sheet  of  hard  ice  some  two  or  three  inches  thick 
covered  the  steeply-inclined  slabs.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  cut  steps  in  it  deep  enough  to  afford  se- 
cure foothold.  The  few  knobs  of  projecting  stone 
seemed  all  to  be  too  loose  either  for  hand  or  foot. 
We  crept  along  in  as  gingerly  a  fashion  as  might  be, 
endeavouring  to  distribute  our  weight  over  the 
maximum  number  of  insecure  supports  until  one 
of  the  party  had  got  sounder  footing.     A  severe 


The  Rothhorn  1 1 7 

piece  of  chimney-sweep  practice  then  landed  us 
once  more  upon  the  razor  edge  of  the  arete. 
The  second  pinnacle  demanded  different  tactics. 
On  the  Zermatt  side  it  was  impractically  steep, 
whilst  on  the  other  it  fell  away  in  one  of  the  smooth 
sheets  of  rock  already  mentioned.  The  rock, 
however,  was  here  seamed  by  deep  fissures  ap- 
proximately horizontal.  It  was  possible  to  insert 
toes  or  fingers  into  these,  so  as  to  present  to  tele- 
scopic vision  (if  any  one  had  been  watching  our 
ascent)  much  the  appearance  of  a  fly  on  a  pane 
of  glass.  Or,  to  make  another  comparison,  our 
method  of  progression  was  not  unlike  that  of  the 
caterpillars,  who  may  be  observed  first  doubled 
up  into  a  loop  and  then  stretched  out  at  full 
length.  When  two  crevices  approximated,  we 
were  in  danger  of  treading  on  our  own  fingers, 
and  the  next  moment  we  were  extended  as  though 
on  the  rack,  clutching  one  crack  with  the  last 
joints  of  our  fingers,  and  feeling  for  another  with 
the  extreme  points  of  our  toes.  The  hold  was 
generally  firm  when  the  fissures  were  not  filled 
with  ice,  and  we  gradually  succeeded  in  outflanking 
the  second  hostile  position.  The  third,  which  now 
rose  within  a  few  yards,  was  of  far  more  threaten- 
ing appearance  than  its  predecessors.  After  a  brief 
inspection,  we  advanced  along  the  ridge  to  its  base. 
In  doing  so  we  had  to  perform  a  manoeuvre  which, 


n8       The  Playground  of  Europe 

though  not  very  difficult,  I  never  remember  to 
have  previously  tried.  One  of  the  plates  to 
Berlepsch's  description  of  the  Alps  represents  a 
mountain-top,  with  the  national  flag  of  Switzerland 
waving  from  the  summit  and  a  group  of  enthusias- 
tic mountaineers  swarming  round  it.  One  of  them 
approaches,  astride  of  a  sharp  ridge,  with  one  leg 
hanging  over  each  precipice.  Our  position  was 
similar,  except  that  the  ridge  by  which  we  ap- 
proached consisted  of  rock  instead  of  snow.  The 
attitude  adopted  had  the  merit  of  safety,  but  was 
deficient  in  comfort.  The  rock  was  so  smooth 
and  its  edge  so  sharp,  that  as  I  crept  along  it, 
supported  entirely  on  my  hands,  I  was  in  momen- 
tary fear  that  a  slip  might  send  one  half  of  me  to 
the  Durand  and  the  other  to  the  Schallenberg 
glacier.  It  was,  however,  pleasing  to  find  a 
genuine  example  of  the  arete  in  its  normal  state — 
so  often  described  in  books  and  so  seldom  found 
in  real  life.  We  landed  on  a  small  platform  at 
the  other  end  of  our  razor  of  Al  Sir  at,  hoping  for 
the  paradise  of  a  new  mountain  summit  as  our 
reward ;  but  as  we  looked  upwards  at  the  last  of 
the  three  pinnacles,  I  felt  doubtful  of  the  result. 
The  rock  above  us  was,  if  I  am  not  mistaken, 
the  one  which,  by  its  sharp  inclination  to  the  east, 
gives  to  the  Rothhorn,  from  some  points  of  view, 
the   appearance  of  actually  curling  over  in  that 


The  Rothhorn  119 

direction,  like  the  crest  of  a  sea-wave  on  the  point 
of  breaking.  To  creep  along  the  eastern  face  was 
totally  impossible.  The  western  slopes,  though  not 
equally  steep,  were  still  frightfully  precipitous,  and 
presented  scarcely  a  ledge  whereby  to  cling  to  their 
slippery  surface.  In  front  of  us  the  rocks  rose 
steeply  in  a  very  narrow  crest,  rounded  and  smooth 
at  the  top,  and  with  all  foothold,  if  foothold  there 
were,  completely  concealed  by  a  layer  of  fresh 
snow.  After  a  glance  at  this  somewhat  unpro- 
mising path,  Melchior  examined  for  a  moment  the 
western  cliff.  The  difficulties  there  seeming  even 
greater,  he  immediately  proceeded  to  the  direct 
assault.  In  a  few  minutes  I  was  scrambling 
desperately  upwards,  utterly  insensible  to  the 
promptings  of  the  self-esteem  which  would  gen- 
erally induce  me  to  refuse  assistance  and  to  pre- 
serve a  workmanlike  attitude.  So  steeply  did 
the  precipice  sink  on  our  left  hand,  that  along 
the  whole  of  this  part  of  the  shelf  the  glacier,  at  a 
vast  distance  below,  formed  the  immediate  back- 
ground to  a  sloping  rocky  ledge,  some  foot  or  two 
in  width,  and  covered  by  slippery  snow.  In  a  few 
paces  I  found  myself  fumbling  vaguely  with  my 
fingers  at  imaginary  excrescences,  my  feet  resting 
upon  rotten  projections  of  crumbling  stone,  whilst 
a  large  pointed  slab  of  rock  pressed  against  my 
stomach,   and   threatened   to   force  my  centre  of 


120        The  Playground  of  Europe 

gravity  backwards  beyond  the  point  of  support. 
My  chief  reliance  was  upon  the  rope;  and  with  a 
graceful  flounder  I  was  presently  landed  in  safety 
upon  a  comparatively  sound  ledge.  Looking 
backwards,  I  was  gratified  by  a  picture  which  has 
since  remained  fixed  in  my  imagination.  Some 
feet  down  the  steep  ridge  was  Grove,  in  one  of 
those  picturesque  attitudes  which  a  man  in- 
voluntarily adopts  when  the  various  points  to 
which  he  trusts  his  weight  have  been  distributed 
without  the  least  regard  to  the  exigencies  of  the 
human  figure,  when  they  are  of  a  slippery  and 
crumbling  nature,  and  when  the  violent  downward 
strain  of  the  rope  behind  him  is  only  just  counter- 
balanced by  the  upward  strain  of  the  rope  in 
front.  Below  Grove  appeared  the  head,  shoulders, 
and  arms  of  Jacob.  His  fingers  were  exploring 
the  rock  in  search  of  infinitesimal  crannies,  and 
his  face  presented  the  expression  of  modified 
good  humour  which  in  him  supplies  the  place  of 
extreme  discontent  in  other  guides.  Jacob's  head 
and  shoulders  were  relieved  against  the  snows  of 
the  Schallenberg  glacier  many  hundred  feet  below. 
Our  view  of  continuous  rock  was  thus  limited 
to  a  few  yards  of  narrow  ridge,  tilted  up  at  a  steep 
angle  apparently  in  mid-air;  and  Jacob  resembled 
a  man  in  the  act  of  clambering  into  a  balloon  far 
above  the  earth.      I  had  but  little  time  for  con- 


The  Rothhorn  121 

templation  before  turning  again  to  our  fierce  strife 
with  the  various  impediments  to  our  march. 
Suddenly  Melchior,  who  had  left  the  highest  ridge 
to  follow  a  shelf  of  rock  on  the  right,  turned  to  me 
with  the  words,  ' '  In  half  an  hour  we  shall  be  on  the 
top."  My  first  impulse  was  to  express  an  utter 
scepticism.  My  perturbed  imagination  was  unable 
to  realise  the  fact  that  we  should  ever  get  off  the 
arete  any  more.  We  seemed  to  be  condemned  to  a 
fate  which  Dante  might  have  reserved  for  faithless 
guides — to  be  everlastingly  climbing  a  hopeless 
arete,  in  a  high  wind,  and  never  getting  any  nearer 
the  summit.  Turning  an  angle  of  the  rock,  I  saw 
that  Melchior  had  spoken  the  truth,  and  for  the 
first  time  that  day  it  occurred  to  me  that  life  was 
not  altogether  a  mistake.  We  had  reached  the 
top  of  what  I  have  called  the  third  pinnacle,  and 
with  it  our  difficulties  were  over.  In  the  words  of 
the  poet,  modified  to  the  necessary  extent' — 

He  that  with  toil  of  heart  and  knees  and  hands 

Up  the  long  ridge  to  the  far  height  hath  won 

His  path  upwards,  and  prevailed, 

Shall  find  the  toppling  crags  of  the  Rothhorn  scaled — 

are  close  to  what,  by  a  somewhat  forced  metaphor, 
we  may  call  "a  shining  tableland."  It  is  not  a 
particularly  level  nor  a  very  extensive  tableland; 
but,  compared  with  the  ridges  up  which  we  had 


122        The  Playground  of  Europe 

been  forcing  our  precarious  way,  it  was  luxurious 
in  the  extreme.  'T  was  not  so  wide  as  Piccadilly 
nor  so  level  as  the  Bedford  River,  but  't  would 
serve;  I  might  almost  add,  if  the  metaphor  were 
not  somewhat  strained,  that  it  made  "worm's 
meat "  of  the  Rothhorn.  At  any  rate  it  was  sound 
under  foot,  and  broad  enough  for  practical  pur- 
poses ;  and  within  less  than  Melchior's  half-hour, 
viz.,  1 1. 1 5  a.m.,  we  reachd' — I  had  almost  said  the 
top;  but  the  Rothhorn  has  no  top.  It  has  a  place 
where  a  top  manifestly  ought  to  have  been,  but 
the  work  had  been  left  unfinished.  It  ended  in  a 
flat  circular  area  a  few  feet  broad,  as  though  it 
had  been  a  perfect  cone,  with  the  apex  cleanly 
struck  off.  Melchior  and  Jacob  set  to  work  at 
once  to  remedy  this  deficiency  of  nature,  whilst 
Grove  and  I  cowered  down  in  a  little  hole  cut  out 
of  the  last  rocks,  which  sheltered  us  from  the 
bitter  wind.  Here,  in  good  temper  with  each  other 
and  our  guides,  and  everything  but  Macdonald's 
absence,  we  sat  down  for  some  twenty  minutes, 
with  muscles  still  quivering  from  the  strain. 

No  doubt  some  enthusiast  will  ask  me  about  the 
view.  I  have  several  times  been  asked  what  the 
Matterhorn  looked  like ;  and  I  wish  I  could  give  an 
answer.  But  I  will  make  a  clean  breast  of  it, 
and  confess  that  I  only  remember  two  things: 
one,   that  we   saw  the  Riffelberg,  looking  like   a 


The  Rothhorn  123 

flat  green  carpet;  the  other,  that  the  gigantic 
mass  of  the  Weisshorn  seemed  to  frown  right  above 
our  heads,  and  shut  out  a  large  segment  from  the 
view.  Seen  from  this  point  it  is  more  massive 
and  of  less  elegant  shape  than  from  most  others. 
It  looked  like  an  enormous  bastion,  with  an  angle 
turned  towards  us.  Whether  I  was  absorbed  in 
the  worship  of  this  noblest  of  Alpine  peaks,  or 
whether  the  clouds  had  concealed  much  of  the  rest 
of  the  panorama,  or  whether  we  were  thinking 
too  much  of  the  ascent  that  was  past  and  the 
descent  that  was  to  come,  or  whether,  as  I  rather 
believe,  the  view  is  really  an  inferior  one,  certain  it 
is  that  I  thought  very  little  of  it.  "And  what 
philosophical  observations  did  you  make?"  will 
be  the  inquiry  of  one  of  those  fanatics  who,  by  a 
reasoning  process  to  me  utterly  inscrutable,  have 
somehow  irrevocably  associated  Alpine  travelling 
with  science.  To  them  I  answer,  that  the  tem- 
perature was  approximately  (1  had  no  thermom- 
eter) 2120  (Fahrenheit)  below  freezing-point.  As 
for  ozone,  if  any  existed  in  the  atmosphere,  it  was 
a  greater  fool  than  I  take  it  for.  As  we  had, 
unluckily,  no  barometer,  I  am  unable  to  give  the 
usual  information  as  to  the  extent  of  our  deviation 
from  the  correct  altitude;  but  the  Federal  map 
fixes  the  height  at  13,855  feet.  Twenty  minutes  of 
freezing   satisfied    me    with    the    prospect,    and    I 


124       The  Playground  of  Europe 

willingly  turned  to  the  descent.  I  will  not  trouble 
my  readers  with  a  repetition  in  inverse  order  of 
the  description  of  our  previous  adventures.  I 
will  not  tell  at  length  how  I  was  sometimes  half- 
suspended  like  a  bundle  of  goods  by  the  rope; 
how  I  was  sometimes  curled  up  into  a  ball,  and 
sometimes  stretched  over  eight  or  nine  feet  of 
rock ;  how  the  rope  got  twisted  round  my  legs  and 
arms  and  body,  into  knots  which  would  have 
puzzled  the  Davenport  Brothers ;  how,  at  one  point, 
I  conceived  myself  to  be  resting  entirely  on  the 
point  of  one  toe  upon  a  stone  coated  with  ice  and 
fixed  very  loosely  in  the  face  of  a  tremendous 
cliff,  whilst  Melchior  absurdly  told  me  I  was 
"ganz  sicher,"  and  encouraged  me  to  jump;  how 
Jacob  seemed  perfectly  at  his  ease;  how  Grove 
managed  to  lend  a  hand  whenever  I  wanted  one; 
and  how  Melchior,  rising  into  absurdly  high  spirits, 
pirouetted  and  capered  and  struck  attitudes  on 
the  worst  places,  and,  in  short,  indulged  himself 
in  a  display  of  fancy  mountaineering  as  a  partial 
relief  to  his  spirits.  We  reached  the  snow  safely 
at  1. 15  p.m.,  and  looked  back  triumphantly  at 
the  nastiest  piece  of  climbing  I  had  ever  accom- 
plished. The  next  traveller  who  makes  the  ascent 
will  probably  charge  me  with  exaggeration.  It  is, 
I  know,  very  difficult  to  avoid  giving  just  cause  for 
that  charge.     I  must  therefore  apologise  before- 


The  Rothhorn  125 

hand,  and  only  beg  my  anticipated  critic  to  re- 
member two  things:  one,  that  on  the  first  ascent 
a  mountain,  in  obedience  to  some  mysterious  law, 
always  is  more  difficult  than  at  any  succeeding  as- 
cent; secondly,  that  nothing  can  be  less  like  a 
mountain  at  one  time  than  the  same  mountain  at 
another.  The  fresh  snow  and  the  bitter  gale  told 
heavily  in  the  scale  against  us.  Some  of  the  hard- 
est ascents  I  remember  have  been  up  places  easy 
in  fine  weather,  but  rendered  difficult  by  accidental 
circumstances.  Making  allowance,  however,  for 
this,  I  still  believe  that  the  last  rocks  of  the  Roth- 
horn will  always  count  among  the  decidedly 
mauvais  pas  of  the  Alps. 

We  ran  rapidly  down  the  snow  without  much 
adventure,  except  that  I  selected  the  steepest  part 
of  the  snow  arete  to  execute  what,  but  for  the  rope, 
would  have  been  a  complete  somersault — an  in- 
voluntary but  appropriate  performance.  Leaving 
the  stony  base  of  the  Besso  well  to  our  right,  we 
struck  the  route  from  the  Trift-Joch  at  the  point 
where  a  little  patch  of  verdure  behind  a  moraine 
generally  serves  for  a  halting  and  feeding  place. 
Here  we  stretched  ourselves  luxuriously  on  the 
soft  green  moss  in  the  afternoon  sun.  We  emptied 
the  last  drops  of  the  wine  bag,  lighted  the  pipe  of 
peace — the  first  that  day — and  enjoyed  the  well- 
earned    climbers'    reward.     Some    mountaineers 


126        The  Playground  of  Europe 

do  not  smoke — such  is  the  darkness  which  lurks 
amidst  our  boasted  civilisation.  To  them  the 
words  I  have  just  penned  convey  no  sympathetic 
thrill.  With  the  ignorance  of  those  who  have 
never  shared  a  blessing,  they  probably  affect  even 
to  despise  the  pleasure  it  confers.  I  can,  at  any 
rate,  say  that  I  have  seldom  known  a  happier  half- 
hour  than  that  in  which  I  basked  on  the  mossy  turf 
in  the  shadow  of  the  conquered  Rothhorn — all 
my  internal  sensations  of  present  comfort,  of  hard- 
won  victory,  and  of  lovely  scenery,  delicately 
harmonised  by  the  hallowing  influence  of  tobacco. 
We  enjoyed  what  the  lotos-eaters  would  have 
enjoyed,  had  they  been  making  an  ascent  of  one 
of  the  "silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow,"  instead  of 
suffering  from  seasickness,  and  partaking  of  a  less 
injurious  stimulant  than  lotos.  Melchior  pointed 
out  during  our  stay  eleven  different  ways  of  as- 
cending the  hitherto  unconquered  Grand  Cornier. 
Grove  and  Jacob  speculated  on  adding  its  summit 
also  to  our  trophies,  whilst  I  observed,  not  without 
secret  satisfaction,  that  the  gathering  clouds 
would  enforce  at  least  a  day's  rest.  We  started 
homewards  with  a  reluctant  effort.  I  diversified 
the  descent  by  an  act  of  gallantry  on  my  own 
account.  Melchior  had  just  skipped  over  a  crevasse 
and  turned  to  hold  out  a  hand.  With  a  contempt- 
uous wave  of  my  own  I  put  his  offer  aside,  remark- 


The  Rothhorn  127 

ing  something  about  people  who  had  done  the 
Rothhorn.  Next  moment  I  was,  it  was  true,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  crevasse,  but,  I  regret  to 
say,  flat  on  my  back,  and  gliding  rapidly  down- 
wards into  its  depths.  Melchior  ignominously 
hooked  me  under  the  arm  with  his  axe  and  jerked 
me  back,  with  a  suitable  warning  for  the  future. 
We  soon  left  the  glacier,  and  on  descending  the 
path  towards  Zinal  were  exposed  to  the  last  danger 
of  the  day.  Certain  natives  had  sprung  apparently 
from  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and  hailed  us  with 
a  strange  dialect,  composed  in  equal  proportions 
of  French,  German,  and  Italian  patois.  Not 
understanding  their  remarks,  I  ran  onwards, 
when  a  big  stone  whizzed  close  past  my  head. 
My  first  impression  was  that  I  was  about  to  be 
converted  into  the  victim  of  another  Zinal  murder, 
the  gentleman  by  whom  the  last  was  committed 
being,  as  it  was  reported,  still  wandering  amongst 
the  mountains.  I  looked  up,  and  saw  that  the 
offender  was  one  of  a  large  herd  of  cows,  which 
were  browsing  in  the  charge  of  the  natives,  and 
managed,  by  kicking  down  loose  stones,  to  keep 
up  a  lively  fire  along  some  distance  of  our  path. 
We  ran  on  all  the  faster,  reached  the  meadows, 
and  ascended  the  path  to  the  village.  Just  as 
we  reached  the  first  houses,  a  melancholy  figure 
advanced  to  meet  us.     Friendly  greetings,   how- 


128       The  Playground  of  Europe 

ever,  proceeded  from  its  lips,  and  we  were  soon 
shaking  hands  with  poor  Macdonald.  We  reached 
M.  Epinay's  inn  at  6.45  p.m.,  the  whole  expedition 
occupying  16  h.  50  m.,  including  about  two  hours' 
halts.  A  pleasant  dinner  succeeded,  notwith- 
standing the  clatter  of  sundry  German  tourists, 
who  had  flooded  the  little  coffee-room  and  occupied 
my  beloved  sofa,  and  who  kept  up  a  ceaseless 
conversation.  Soon  afterwards,  Macdonald  hav- 
ing generously  abandoned  to  me  the  cupboard  in 
which  he  slept,  I  was  trying  to  solve  the  problem 
of  placing  a  length  of  six  feet  on  a  bed  measuring 
about  3  ft.  6  in.  by  2  ft.  As  its  solution  appeared 
to  me  to  be  inextricably  mixed  up  with  some 
question  about  the  highest  rocks  of  the  Rothhorn, 
and  as  I  heard  no  symptoms  of  my  neighbour's 
slumbers  in  the  next  cupboard,  which  was  divided 
from  mine  by  a  sort  of  paper  partition,  I  incline 
to  think  that  I  was  not  long  awake. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  EIGER-JOCH 

On  August  3,  1859,  I  was  travelling  on  the 
Swiss  railway,  between  Basle  and  Olten,  with 
my  friends  Messrs.  William  and  George  Mathews. 
As  we  shot  out  of  the  long  tunnel  above  Olten, 
and  descended  into  the  valley  of  the  Aar,  the 
glorious  range  of  the  Bernese  Oberland  rose 
majestically  into  sight,  some  fifty  miles  away. 
While  telling  over  the  names  of  our  gigantic 
friends,  our  eyes  were  caught  by  the  broad  flat 
top  of  the  Monch,  which  no  Englishman  had  yet 
reached.  It  occurred  to  us  that  an  attack  upon 
this  hoary  pillar  of  the  mid-aerial  church  would 
be  a  worthy  commencement  of  our  expedition, 
and  it  struck  us  at  the  same  time  that  by  ascend- 
ing, as  a  first  step,  the  ridge  called  by  Mr.  Bun- 
bury  J  the  Col  de  la  Jungfrau,  which  connects 
the  Monch  with  the  Jungfrau,  we  should,  so  to 
speak,  be  killing  two  birds  with  one  stone.  A 
problem    which    at    that    time    offered    itself    to 

:  In  the  first  series  of  Peaks,  Passes,  a>td  Glaciers. 
9  I29 


130        The  Playground  of  Europe 

Alpine  travellers,  was  to  discover  a  direct  route 
from  the  waters  of  the  Lutschine  to  those  of  the 
Rhone.  A  glance  at  the  map  will  show  five  pos- 
sible routes  between  the  Finsteraarhorn  and 
the  Gletscherhorn,  corresponding  to  five  depres- 
sions in  the  main  ridge  of  the  Oberland.  The 
most  direct  and  obvious  route  is  across  the  gap 
between  the  Monch  and  the  Jungfrau.  This 
is  obtrusively,  and  almost  offensively,  a  genuine 
pass.  Unlike  some  passes,  falsely  so  called, 
whose  summit  levels  are  either  huge  plains,  like 
the  Theodule,  or,  still  worse,  tops  of  mountains, 
like  one  or  two  that  might  be  mentioned,  the 
Jungfrau-Joch  presents  a  well-defined  depression 
between  the  two  highest  mountains  in  the  dis- 
trict. Moreover,  the  summit  of  the  pass  and 
the  two  ends  of  the  journey  lie  in  a  straight 
line,  from  which  no  part  of  the  route  deviates 
considerably.  In  fact,  were  it  not  for  the  moun- 
tains, the  line  of  the  pass  would  be  the  most 
direct  route  from  the  Wengern  Alp  to  the  JEg- 
gischhorn.  It  shows  itself,  therefore,  as  the  very 
normal  type  of  a  pass  to  the  whole  middle  land 
of  Switzerland.  And  but  for  a  certain  affectation 
of  inaccessibility,  it  must  long  ago  have  been 
adopted  as  one  of  the  main  Alpine  routes.  There 
are,  however,  several  alternatives  which  may  be 
adopted  in  order  to  turn  its  obvious  difficulties. 


The  Eiger-Joch  131 

To  the  east  of  the  Monch  lie  three  passes,  each 
with  its  characteristic  peculiarities.  The  most 
obvious  route  is  that  between  the  Monch  and 
the  Viescherhorn :  it  was  first  made  in  historic 
times  by  Messrs.  Hudson  and  Birkbeck,  in  1858; 
but  the  legend  goes  that  it  was  used  two  or  three 
centuries  back,  when  certain  Valaisan  Protestants 
were  in  the  habit  of  crossing  the  range  to  attend 
the  services  of  their  fellow-believers  at  Grindel- 
wald.  Religious  zeal  must  have  been  greater, 
or  the  glaciers  materially  less,  than  at  present. 
The  same  point,  again,  may  be  reached  by  climb- 
ing the  ridge  between  the  Monch  and  the  Eiger, 
from  the  summit  of  which,  as  will  presently 
appear,  the  col  may  be  easily  reached.  By 
keeping  still  farther  to  the  east,  the  ridge  con- 
necting the  Viescherhorn  with  the  Finsteraar- 
horn  may  again  be  crossed,  and  a  descent  effected 
upon  the  higher  snows  of  the  Viescher  glacier. 
And,  finally,  it  is  possible  to  cross  the  chain  to 
the  west  of  the  Jungfrau.  This  was  first  ac- 
complished by  Messrs.  Hawkins  and  Tyndall, 
in  i860;  and  in  1864  I  had  the  good  fortune,  in 
company  with  Messrs.  Grove  and  Macdonald, 
to  find  an  easier  route  over  the  same  depression, 
which  brought  us  close  to  the  shoulder  of  the 
Jungfrau.  We  were  singularly  lucky  in  the 
weather,    and  had    the    satisfaction   of    reaching 


132        The  Playground  of  Europe 

the  iEggischhorn  in  eighteen  hours  from  Lauter- 
brunnen,  ascending  the  Jungfrau  en  route.  This 
is  one  of  the  very  noblest  expeditions  in  the  Alps. 

Till  1859,  however,  none  of  these  passages 
had  been  made,  with  the  single  exception  of 
the  Monch-Joch.  Accordingly,  on  August  7th,  we 
assembled,  with  an  eager  desire  to  attempt  the 
new  passage,  at  the  lower  of  the  two  little  inns 
on  the  ever-glorious  Wengern  Alp. 

The  Mathews  were  accompanied  by  two  Cha- 
mouni  men,  Jean-Baptiste  Croz  and  Charlet,  whilst 
I  had  secured  the  gigantic  Ulrich  Lauener,  the 
most  picturesque  of  guides.  Tall,  spare,  blue- 
eyed,  long-limbed,  and  square-shouldered,  with 
a  jovial  laugh  and  a  not  ungraceful  swagger, 
he  is  the  very  model  of  a  true  mountaineer; 
and,  except  that  his  rule  is  apt  to  be  rather 
autocratic,  I  would  not  wish  for  a  pleasanter 
companion.  He  has,  however,  certain  views  as 
to  the  superiority  of  the  Teutonic  over  the  Latin 
races,  which  rather  interfered  with  the  harmony 
of  the  party  at  a  later  period.  Meanwhile,  we 
examined  the  work  before  us  more  closely.  The 
Monch  is  connected,  by  two  snow  ridges,  with 
the  Jungfrau  on  the  west  and  the  Eiger  on  the 
east.  From  the  first  of  these  ridges  descends 
the  Guggi  glacier,  and  from  the  second  the  Eiger 
glacier,  both  of  them  pouring  their  torrents  into 


The  Eiger-Joch  133 

the  gloomy  Triimleten  valley,  the  trench  which 
also  receives  the  snow  avalanches  of  the  Jungfrau. 
These  two  glaciers  are  separated  by  the  huge 
northern  buttress  of  the  Monch,  which,  I  believe, 
is  generally  supposed  by  tourists  to  be  perpen- 
dicular; but  the  long  slopes  of  debris  by  which 
it  is  faced  prove  the  fallacy  of  this  idea  to  an 
experienced  eye,  and  it  is,  in  fact,  easy  to  ascend. 
Both  glaciers  are  much  crevassed;  the  Guggi, 
however,  expands  into  a  kind  of  level  plateau, 
about  half-way  up  the  mountain,  connected  by 
long  and  broken  snow-slopes  with  the  Jungfrau- 
Joch. 

The  morning  of  the  6th  having  been  gloomy, 
we  spent  the  later  part  of  the  day  in  a  recon- 
noitring expedition  up  to  this  plateau  and  a 
little  beyond  it.  The  result  of  our  observations 
was  not  encouraging.  We  mounted  some  way 
above  the  plateau  on  a  great  heap  of  debris  that 
had  been  disgorged  by  a  glacier  above.  The 
blue  crevasses  which  were  drawn  across  the  pro- 
truding nose  of  ice  showed  that  at  any  minute 
we  might  be  surprised  by  the  descent  of  new 
masses,  which  would  convert  us  into  debris 
ourselves.  Even  if  we  surmounted  this  danger 
in  the  early  morning,  the  steep  slopes  of  neve 
above  us,  which  occasionally  bulged  out  into 
huge  overhanging  masses,  looked   far    from    pro- 


134       The  Playground  of  Europe 

mising.  Retreating  to  the  buttress  of  the  Monch, 
we  turned  our  attention  to  the  Eiger  glacier. 
Though  some  difficulties  were  obviously  to  be 
encountered,  its  aspect  was  generally  more  aus- 
picious, and  we  accordingly  resolved  to  modify 
our  plans  by  ascending  the  eastern  instead  of 
the  western  shoulder  of  the  Monch.  We  hoped 
afterwards  to  attack  the  Monch,  but  in  any 
case  meant  to  descend  to  the  Aletsch  glacier  on 
the  other  side. 

An  additional  result  of  our  expedition  had 
been  to  develop  a  more  decided  rivalry  between 
Lauener  and  the  Chamouni  men.  We  had  already 
had  one  or  two  little  races  and  disputations  in 
consequence,  and  Lauener  was  disposed  to  take 
a  disparaging  view  of  the  merits  of  these  foreign 
competitors  on  his  own  peculiar  ground.  As, 
however,  he  could  not  speak  a  word  of  French, 
nor  they  of  German,  he  was  obliged  to  convey 
this  sentiment  in  pantomime,  which  perhaps  did 
not  soften  its  vigour.  I  was  accordingly  pre- 
pared for  a  few  disputes  the  next  day — an  an- 
noyance which  occasionally  attends  a  combination 
of  Swiss  and  Chamouni  guides. 

About  four  on  the  morning  of  August  7th,  we 
got  off  from  the  inn  on  the  Wengern  Alp,  not- 
withstanding a  few  delays,  and  steered  straight 
for  the  foot  of  the  Eiger.     In  the  early  morning 


The  Eigcr-Joch  135 

the  rocks  around  the  glacier  and  the  lateral 
moraines  were  hard  and  slippery .  Before  long, 
however,  we  found  ourselves  well  on  the  ice, 
near  the  central  axis  of  the  Eiger  glacier,  and 
looking  up  at  the  great  terrace-shaped  ice-masses, 
separated  by  deep  crevasses,  which  rose  threaten- 
ingly over  our  heads,  one  above  another,  like 
the  defences  of  some  vast  fortification.  And 
here  began  the  first  little  dispute  between  Ober- 
land  and  Chamouni.  The  Chamouni  men  pro- 
posed a  direct  assault  on  the  network  of  crevasses 
above  us.  Lauener  said  that  we  ought  to  turn 
them  by  crossing  to  the  south-west  side,  im- 
mediately below  the  Monch.  My  friends  and 
their  guides  forming  a  majority,  and  seeming 
to  have  little  respect  for  the  arguments  urged 
by  the  minority,  we  gave  in  and  followed  them, 
with  many  muttered  remarks  from  Lauener. 
We  soon  found  ourselves  performing  a  series  of 
manoeuvres  like  those  required  for  the  ascent 
of  the  Col  du  Geant.  At  times  we  were  lying- 
flat  in  little  gutters  on  the  faces  of  the  seracs, 
worming  ourselves  along  like  boa-constrictors. 
At  the  next  moment  we  were  balancing  ourselves 
on  a  knife-edge  of  ice  between  two  crevasses, 
or  plunging  into  the  very  bowels  of  the  glacier, 
with  a  natural  arch  of  ice  meeting  above  our 
heads.     I  need  not  attempt  to  describe  difficulties 


136        The  Playground  of  Europe 

and  dangers  familiar  to  all  ice-travellers.  Like 
other  such  difficulties,  they  were  exciting  and 
even  rather  amusing  for  a  time,  but  unfortunately 
they  seemed  inclined  to  last  rather  too  long. 
Some  of  the  deep  crevasses  apparently  stretched 
almost  from  side  to  side  of  the  glacier,  rending 
its  whole  mass  into  distorted  fragments.  In 
attempting  to  find  a  way  through  them,  we 
seemed  to  be  going  nearly  as  far  backwards  as 
forwards,  and  the  labyrinth  in  which  we  were 
involved  was  as  hopelessly  intricate  after  a  long 
struggle  as  it  had  been  at  first.  Moreover,  the 
sun  had  long  touched  the  higher  snow-fields,  and 
was  creeping  down  to  us  step  by  step.  As  soon 
as  it  reached  the  huge  masses  amongst  which  we 
were  painfully  toiling,  some  of  them  would  begin 
to  jump  about  like  hailstones  in  a  shower,  and 
our  position  would  become  really  dangerous.  The 
Chamouni  guides,  in  fact,  declared  it  to  be  dan- 
gerous already,  and  warned  us  not  to  speak,  for 
fear  of  bringing  some  of  the  nicely  poised  ice- 
masses  down  on  our  heads.  On  my  translating 
this  well-meant  piece  of  advice  to  Lauener,  he 
immediately  selected  the  most  dangerous-looking 
pinnacle  in  sight,  and  mounting  to  the  top  of  it 
sent  forth  a  series  of  screams,  loud  enough,  I 
should  have  thought,  to  bring  down  the  top  of 
the   Monch.     They   failed,   however,   to  dislodge 


The  Eiger-Joch  137 

any  seracs,  and  Lauener,  going  to  the  front, 
called  to  us  to  follow  him.  By  this  time  we 
were  all  glad  to  follow  any  one  who  was  confident 
enough  to  lead.  Turning  to  our  right,  we  crossed 
the  glacier  in  a  direction  parallel  to  the  deep 
crevasses,  and  therefore  unobstructed  by  any 
serious  obstacles,  till  we  found  ourselves  imme- 
diately beneath  the  great  cliffs  of  the  Monch. 
Our  prospects  changed  at  once.  A  great  fold  in 
the  glacier  produces  a  kind  of  diagonal  pathway, 
stretching  upwards  from  the  point  where  we 
stood  towards  the  rocks  of  the  Eiger.  It  was 
not,  indeed,  exactly  a  carriage-road,  but  along 
the  line  which  divides  two  different  systems  of 
crevasse  the  glacier  seemed  to  have  been  crushed 
into  smaller  fragments,  producing,  as  it  were,  a 
kind  of  incipient  macadamisation.  The  masses, 
instead  of  being  divided  by  long  regular  trenches, 
were  crumbled  and  jammed  together  so  as  to 
form  a  road,  easy  and  pleasant  enough  by  com- 
parison with  our  former  difficulties.  Pressing 
rapidly  up  this  rough  path,  we  soon  found  our- 
selves in  the  very  heart  of  the  glacier,  with  a 
broken  wilderness  of  ice  on  every  side.  We  were 
in  one  of  the  grandest  positions  I  have  ever  seen 
for  observing  the  wonders  of  the  ice-world;  but 
those  wonders  were  not  all  of  an  encouraging 
nature.     For,  looking  up  to  the  snow-fields  now 


138        The  Playground  of  Europe 

close  above  us,  an  obstacle  appeared  which  made 
us  think  that  all  our  previous  labours  had  been 
in  vain.  From  side  to  side  of  the  glacier  a  vast 
palisade  of  blue  ice-pinnacles  struck  up  through 
the  white  layers  of  neve  formed  by  the  first 
plunge  of  the  glacier  down  its  waterfall  of  ice. 
Some  of  them  rose  in  fantastic  shapes — huge 
blocks  balanced  on  narrow  footstalks,  and  only 
waiting  for  the  first  touch  of  the  sun  to  fall  in 
ruins  down  the  slope  below.  Others  rose  like 
church  spires,  or  like  square  towers,  defended 
by  trenches  of  unfathomable  depth.  Once  beyond 
this  barrier,  we  should  be  safe  upon  the  highest 
plateau  of  the  glacier  at  the  foot  of  the  last  snow- 
slope.  But  it  was  obviously  necessary  to  turn 
them  by  some  judicious  strategical  movement. 
One  plan  was  to  climb  the  lower  rocks  of  the 
Eiger;  but,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  we 
fortunately  followed  Lauener  towards  the  other 
side  of  the  glacier,  where  a  small  gap,  between 
the  seracs  and  the  lower  slopes  of  the  Monch, 
seemed  to  be  the  entrance  to  a  ravine  that  might 
lead  us  upwards.  Such  it  turned  out  to  be. 
Instead  of  the  rough  footing  to  which  we  had 
hitherto  been  unwillingly  restricted,  we  found 
ourselves  ascending  a  narrow  gorge,  with  the 
giant  cliffs  of  the  Monch  on  our  right,  and  the 
toppling  ice-pinnacles  on  our  left.     A  beautifully 


The  Eiger-Joch  139 

even  surface  of  snow,  scarcely  marked  by  a 
single  crevasse,  lay  beneath  our  feet.  We  pressed 
rapidly  up  this  strange  little  pathway,  as  it 
wound  steeply  upwards  between  the  rocks  and 
the  ice,  expecting  at  every  moment  to  see  it  thin 
out,  or  break  off  at  some  impassable  crevasse.  It 
was,  I  presume,  formed  by  the  sliding  of  ava- 
lanches from  the  slopes  of  the  Monch.  At  any 
rate,  to  our  delight,  it  led  us  gradually  round 
the  barrier  of  seracs,  till  in  a  few  minutes  we 
found  ourselves  on  the  highest  plateau  of  the 
glacier,  the  crevasses  fairly  beaten,  and  a  level 
plain  of  snow  stretching  from  our  feet  to  the 
last  snow-slope. 

We  were  now  standing  on  the  edge  of  a  small 
level  plateau.  One,  and  only  one,  gigantic  crevasse 
of  really  surpassing  beauty  stretched  right  across 
it.  This  was,  we  guessed,  some  three  hundred 
feet  deep,  and  its  sides  passed  gradually  into 
the  lovely  blues  and  greens  of  semi-transparent 
ice,  whilst  long  rows  and  clusters  of  huge  icicles 
imitated  (as  Lauener  remarked)  the  carvings 
and  ecclesiastical  furniture  of  some  great  cathe- 
dral. The  opposite  side  of  the  plain  was  bounded 
by  a  great  snow-ridge,  which  swept  round  it  in 
a  long  semicircular  curve  from  the  Monch  to  the 
Eiger.  This  ridge,  in  fact,  forms  the  connecting 
isthmus  by  which   the  great   promontory  of  the 


140       The  Playground  of  Europe 

Eiger  is  joined  to  its  brethren  of  the  Oberland. 
Close  to  the  Monch  the  slopes  are  of  great  height 
and  steepness,  whilst,  owing  to  the  gradual  rise 
of  the  snow-fields  and  the  sinking  of  the  ridge, 
they  become  very  insignificant  at  the  end  next 
to  the  Eiger.  A  reference  to  the  map  will  explain 
the  geography  of  our  position.  The  pass  which 
we  were  attempting  would  naturally  lie  over 
the  shoulder,  where  the  connecting,  isthmus  I 
have  mentioned  articulates  with  the  lower  ridges 
of  the  Monch.  Lauener  had,  in  fact,  reached 
this  exact  point  from  the  other  side.  And  we 
knew  that,  once  there,  we  should  be  on  the  edge 
of  a  nearly  level  basin  of  snow,  which  stretches 
across  the  Monch-Joch,  or  ridge  connecting  the 
Monch  with  the  Walcherenhorner.  This  basin 
is,  in  fact,  the  common  source  of  the  Aletsch 
and  Viescher  1  glaciers,  and  the  mound  of  the 
Monch-Joch  which  divides  them  is  very  slightly 
defined  across  the  undulating  beds  of  neve. 
From  this  basin,  however,  the  Viescher  glacier 
sinks  very  rapidly,  and  consequently  the  ridge 
between  the  Monch  and  Eiger,  which  rises  above 
it  in  bare  rock  cliffs,  is  much  loftier  near  the  Eiger 

1  The  best  known  Viescher  glacier  is,  of  course,  that  which 
descends  from  the  Oberaar-Joch  towards  Viesch.  The 
glacier  mentioned  in  the  text  is  the  great  tributary  of 
the  lower  Grindelwald  glacier,  called  "Viescher"  glacier  in 
the  Carte  Dufour. 


The  Eiger-Joch  1 4 1 

than  near  the  Monch  on  its  south-eastern  side— 
the  exact  opposite  of  its  form  on  the  north- 
western side,  as  already  mentioned.  Hence,  to 
reach  our  pass,  we  had  the  choice  either  of  at 
once  attacking  the  long  steep  slopes  which  led 
directly  to  the  desired  point  on  the  shoulder  of 
the  Monch,  or  of  first  climbing  the  gentle  slopes 
near  the  Eiger,  and  then  forcing  our  way  along 
the  backbone  of  the  ridge.  We  resolved  to  try 
the  last  plan  first. 

Accordingly,  after  a  hasty  breakfast  at  9.30, 
we  started  across  our  little  snow-plain  and  com- 
menced the  ascent.  After  a  short  climb  of  no 
great  difficulty,  merely  pausing  to  chip  a  few 
steps  out  of  the  hard  crust  of  snow,  we  successively 
stepped  safely  on  to  the  top  of  the  ridge.  As 
each  of  my  predecessors  did  so,  I  observed  that 
he  first  looked  along  the  arete,  then  down  the 
cliffs  before  him,  and  then  turned  with  a  very 
blank  expression  of  face  to  his  neighbour.  From 
our  feet  the  bare  cliffs  sank  down,  covered  with 
loose  rocks,  but  too  steep  to  hold  more  than 
patches  of  snow,  and  presenting  right  dangerous 
climbing  for  many  hundred  feet  towards  the 
Grindelwald  glaciers.  The  arete  offered  a  prospect 
not  much  bettor:  a  long  ridge  of  snow,  sharp 
as  the  blade  of  a  knife,  was  playfully  alternated 
with  great  rocky  teeth,  striking  up  through  their 


r42        The  Playground  of  Europe 

icy  covering,  like  the  edge  of  a  saw.  We  held 
a  council  standing,  and  considered  the  following 
propositions: — First,  Lauener  coolly  proposed, 
and  nobody  seconded,  a  descent  of  the  precipices 
towards  Grindelwald.  This  proposition  produced 
a  subdued  shudder  from  the  travellers  and  a 
volley  of  unreportable  language  from  the  Cha- 
mouni  guides.  It  was  liable,  amongst  other  things, 
to  the  trifling  objection  that  it  would  take  us 
just  the  way  we  did  not  want  to  go.  The  Cha- 
mouni  men  now  proposed  that  we  should  follow 
the  arete.  This  was  disposed  of  by  Lauener's 
objection  that  it  would  take  at  least  six  hours. 
We  should  have  had  to  cut  steps  down  the  slope 
and  up  again  round  each  of  the  rocky  teeth  I 
have  mentioned;  and  I  believe  that  this  calcu- 
lation of  time  was  very  probably  correct.  Fi- 
nally, we  unanimously  resolved  upon  the  only 
course  open  to  us — to  descend  once  more  into 
our  little  valley,  and  thence  to  cut  our  way 
straight  up  the  long  slopes  to  the  shoulder  of 
the  Monch. 

Considerably  disappointed  at  this  unexpected 
check,  we  retired  to  the  foot  of  the  slopes,  feeling 
that  we  had  no  time  to  lose,  but  still  hoping 
that  a  couple  of  hours  more  might  sec  us  at  the 
top  of  the  pass.  It  was  just  eleven  as  we  crossed 
a  small  bergschrund  and  began  the  ascent.    Laue- 


The  Eiger-Joch  143 

ner  led  the  way  to  cut  the  steps,  followed  by 
the  two  other  guides,  who  deepened  and  polished 
them  up.  Just  as  we  started,  I  remarked  a 
kind  of  bright  track  drawn  down  the  ice  in  front 
of  us,  apparently  by  the  frozen  remains  of  some 
small  rivulet  which  had  been  trickling  down 
it.  I  guessed  that  it  would  take  some  fifty  steps 
and  half-an-hour's  work  to  reach  it.  We  cut 
about  fifty  steps,  however,  in  the  first  half-hour, 
and  were  not  a  quarter  of  the  way  to  my  mark; 
and  as  even  when  there  we  should  not  be  half- 
way to  the  top,  matters  began  to  look  serious. 
The  ice  was  very  hard,  and  it  was  necessary,  as 
Lauener  observed,  to  cut  steps  in  it  as  big  as 
soup-tureens,  for  the  result  of  a  slip  would  in 
all  probability  have  been  that  the  rest  of  our 
lives  would  have  been  spent  in  sliding  down  a 
snow-slope,  and  that  that  employment  would 
not  have  lasted  long  enough  to  become  at  all 
monotonous.  Time  slipped  by,  and  I  gradually 
became  weary  of  a  sound  to  which  at  first  I 
always  listen  with  pleasure — the  chipping  of 
the  axe,  and  the  hiss  of  the  fragments  as  they 
skip  down  the  long  incline  below  us.  Moreover, 
the  sun  was  very  hot,  and  reflected  with  op- 
pressive power  from  the  bright  and  polished 
surface  of  the  ice.  I  could  see  that  a  certain 
flask  was  circulating  with  great  steadiness  amongst 


144        The  Playground  of  Europe 

the  guides,  and  the  work  of  cutting  the  steps 
seemed  to  be  extremely  severe.  I  was  counting 
the  250th  step,  when  we  at  last  reached  the 
little  line  I  had  been  so  long  watching,  and  it 
even  then  required  a  glance  back  at  the  long  line 
of  steps  behind  to  convince  me  that  we  had  in  fact 
made  any  progress.  The  action  of  resting  one's 
whole  weight  on  one  leg  for  about  a  minute,  and 
then  slowly  transferring  it  to  the  other,  becomes 
wearisome  when  protracted  for  hours.  Still  the 
excitement  and  interest  made  the  time  pass 
quickly.  I  was  in  constant  suspense  lest  Lauener 
should  pronounce  for  a  retreat,  which  would 
have  been  not  merely  humiliating,  but  not  im- 
probably dangerous,  amidst  the  crumbling  seracs 
in  the  afternoon  sun.  I  listened  with  some 
amusement  to  the  low  moanings  of  little  Charlet, 
who  was  apparently  bewailing  his  position  to 
Croz,  and  being  heartlessly  chaffed  in  return. 
One  or  two  measurements  with  a  clinometer  of 
Mathews'  gave  inclinations  of  510  or  520,  and 
the  slope  was  perhaps  occasionally  a  little  more. 

At  last,  as  I  was  counting  the  580th  step,  we 
reached  a  little  patch  of  rock,  and  felt  ourselves 
once  more  on  solid  ground,  with  no  small  satis- 
faction. Not  that  the  ground  was  specially 
solid.  It  was  a  small  crumbling  patch  of  rock, 
and    every    stone    we    dislodged    went    bounding 


The  Eiger-Joch  145 

rapidly  down  the  side  of  the  slope,  diminishing 
in  apparent  size  till  it  disappeared  in  the  berg- 
schrund,  hundreds  of  feet  below.  However, 
each  of  us  managed  to  find  some  nook  in  which 
he  could  stow  himself  away,  whilst  the  Chamouni 
men  took  their  turn  in  front,  and  cut  steps  straight 
upwards  to  the  top  of  the  slope.  By  this  means 
they  kept  along  a  kind  of  rocky  rib,  of  which 
our  patch  was  the  lowest  point,  and  we  thus 
could  occasionally  get  a  footstep  on  rock  instead 
of  ice.  Once  on  the  top  of  the  slope,  we  could 
see  no  obstacle  intervening  between  us  and 
the  point  over  which  our  pass  must  lie. 

Meanwhile  we  meditated  on  our  position.  It 
was  already  four  o'clock.  After  twelve  hours' 
unceasing  labour,  we  were  still  a  long  way  on 
the  wrong  side  of  the  pass.  We  were  clinging 
to  a  ledge  in  the  mighty  snow-wall  which  sank 
sheer  down  below  us  and  rose  steeply  above  our 
heads.  Beneath  our  feet  the  whole  plain  of 
Switzerland  lay  with  a  faint  purple  haze  drawn 
over  it  like  a  veil,  a  few  green  sparkles  just  point- 
ing out  the  Lake  of  Thun.  Nearer,  and  apparently 
almost  immediately  below  us,  lay  the  Wengern 
Alp,  and  the  little  inn  we  had  left  twelve  hours 
before,  whilst  we  could  just  see  the  back  of  the 
labyrinth  of  crevasses  where  we  had  wandered 
so  long.     Through  a  telescope  I  could  even  dis- 


146        The  Playground  of  Europe 

tinguish  people  standing  about  the  inn,  who  no 
doubt  were  contemplating  our  motions.  As 
we  rested  the  Chamouni  guides  had  cut  a  stair- 
case up  the  slope,  and  we  prepared  to  follow. 
It  was  harder  work  than  before,  for  the  whole 
slope  was  now  covered  with  a  kind  of  granular 
snow,  and  resembled  a  huge  pile  of  hailstones. 
The  hailstones  poured  into  every  footstep  as 
it  was  cut,  and  had  to  be  cleared  out  with  hands 
and  feet  before  we  could  get  even  a  slippery 
foothold.  As  we  crept  cautiously  up  this  treach- 
erous staircase,  I  could  not  help  reflecting  on 
the  lively  bounds  with  which  the  stones  and 
fragments  of  ice  had  gone  spinning  from  our 
last  halting-place  down  to  the  yawning  berg- 
schrund  below.  We  succeeded,  however,  in  avoid- 
ing their  example,  and  a  staircase  of  about  one 
hundred  steps  brought  us  to  the  top  of  the 
ridge,  but  at  a  point  still  at  some  distance  from 
the  pass.  It  was  necessary  to  turn  along 
the  arete  towards  the  Monch.  We  were  pre- 
paring to  do  this  by  keeping  on  the  snow- 
ridge,  when  Lauener,  jumping  down  about  six 
feet  on  the  side  opposite  to  that  by  which  we 
had  ascended,  alighted  upon  a  little  ledge  of 
rock,  and  called  to  us  to  follow.  He  assured 
us  that  it  was  granite,  and  that  therefore  there 
was  no  danger  of  slipping.     The  sun  had  melted 


The  Eiger-Joch  147 

the  snow  on  the  southern  side  of  the  ridge,  so 
that  it  no  longer  quite  covered  the  inclined 
plane  of  rock  upon  which  it  rested.  The  path 
thus  exposed  was  narrow  and  treacherous  enough 
in  appearance  at  first;  soon,  however,  it  grew 
broader,  and,  compared  with  our  ice-climb, 
afforded  capital  footing.  The  precipice  beneath 
us  thinned  out  as  the  Viescher  glacier  rose  towards 
our  pass,  and  at  last  we  found  ourselves  at  the 
edge  of  a  little  mound  of  snow  through  which 
a  few  plunging  steps  brought  us,  just  at  six 
o'clock,  to  the  long-desired  shoulder  of  the  Monch. 
I  cannot  describe  the  pleasure  with  which 
we  stepped  at  last  on  to  the  little  saddle  of  snow, 
and  felt  that  we  had  won  the  victory.  We  had 
made  a  pass  equal  in  beauty  and  difficulty  to 
any  first-rate  pass  in  the  Alps — I  should  rather 
say  to  any  pass  and  a  half.  For,  whereas  most 
such  passes  can  show  but  two  fine  views,  we  here 
enjoyed  three.  From  the  time  of  our  reaching 
the  summit  of  the  ridge  we  had  been  enveloped 
in  a  light  mist.  Shortly  after  we  had  gained 
the  col,  this  mist  suddenly  drew  up  like  a  curtain ; 
and  as  mountain  after  mountain  came  out  in 
every  direction  from  a  point  of  view  quite  new  to 
me  I  felt  perfectly  bewildered.  We  were  on  the 
edge  of  three  great  basins.  Behind  us  the  plain 
of  Switzerland  stretched  away  to  the  Jura.     On 


i48       The  Playground  of  Europe 

our  left  a  huge  amphitheatre  of  glacier  sank 
down,  marked  in  long  concentric  curves  by 
tier  after  tier  of  crevasses  to  the  level  of  the 
Grindelwald  glacier.  Beyond  rose  the  sheer 
cliffs  of  the  Wetterhorn,  and  farther  back  from 
the  plain  the  black  cluster  of  rocks  of  the  Schreck- 
horner.  This  view  is  invisible  from  the  Col  de 
la  Jungfrau,  and  is  so  eminently  beautiful  that 
I  should  recommend  visitors  from  the  ^ggisch- 
horn  to  prefer  this  col  to  the  other.  It  is  as 
easily  reached  from  the  southern  side,  and  is 
alone  worth  the  trouble,  if  it  be  not  profane  to 
speak  of  the  trouble,  of  such  a  walk.  But  the 
finest  part  of  the  view  remains.  We  were  standing 
at  the  edge  of  a  great  basin  of  snow.  From  its 
farther  side  the  great  Aletsch  glacier  stretched 
away  from  our  feet  like  the  reach  of  some  gigantic 
river  frozen  over,  and  covered  from  side  to  side 
with  a  level  sheet  of  pure  white  snow,  sweeping 
gradually  away  in  one  grand  curve  till  it  was 
lost  to  sight  in  the  distance.  Beyond  it  rose 
the  Monte  Leone  and  the  ranges  that  look  down 
on  Italy.  On  each  side  rose  some  of  the  noblest 
mountains  in  Switzerland — the  Jungfrau,  Monch, 
Alctschhorn,  and  the  long  jagged  range  of  the 
Viescherhorner,  with  the  needle-point  of  the 
Finsteraarhorn  overlooking  them.  So  noble  and 
varied  a  sweep  of  glacier  is  visible  nowhere  else 


The  Eiger-Joch  149 

in  the  Alps.  Is  it  visible  on  the  Eiger-Joch? 
Did  we  really  see  the  Monte  Leone,  the  Jung- 
frau,  and  the  Aletschhorn  with  our  bodily  eyes, 
or  were  they  revealed  only  to  the  eye  of  faith? 
Have  I,  in  short,  written  down  accurately  what 
I  saw  at  a  given  moment,  or  have  I  quietly  as- 
sumed that  we  saw  everything  which  was  visible 
during  the  remainder  of  our  walk  to  the  /Eggisch- 
horn?  I  regret  to  say  that  I  have  undoubtedly 
used  a  certain  poetic  license- — a  fact  which  I 
ascertained  by  once  more  reaching  the  Eiger- 
Joch  in  1870,  though  not  from  the  same  side. 
The  Monch  and  Trugberg  cut  off  a  large  part 
of  the  view,  and  only  a  limited  part  of  the  great 
sweep  of  the  Aletsch  glacier  is  visible  from  the 
col  itself.  Without  adding  to  the  weakness  of 
a  blunder  the  folly  of  an  apology,  I  will  simply 
remark  that  he  who  sees  only  what  is  before 
his  eyes  sees  the  worst  part  of  every  view.  Let 
the  imagination  remove  the  Monch  and  Trugberg 
and  everything  that  I  have  described  will  be 
visible;  whilst  even  the  prosaic  persons  who 
carry  note-books  to  bind  themselves  down  to 
what  Clough  calls  "the  merest  it  was,"  and 
thus  cramp  their  excursions  to  the  "great  might 
have  been,"  will  find  that  perch  on  the  shoulder 
of  the  Monch  to  be  almost  incomparable  in 
variety  and  magnificence.     I  will  add  that  though 


150        The  Playground  of  Europe 

the  pass  has,  for  some  reason,  never  been  repeated, 
I  see  no  reason  to  suppose  it  to  be  specially  dif- 
ficult. My  guide  on  the  later  occasion  maintained 
that  we  could  have  descended  the  long  slopes, 
which  took  us  seven  hours  to  climb  in  1859,  in 
an  hour  and  a  half.  But  they  were  now  snow 
instead  of  ice.  We  saw,  too,  a  route  along  the 
cliffs  which  fall  from  the  ridge  towards  the  Grind el- 
wald  glacier  which  may  turn  out  to  be  practicable 
when  there  is  little  snow.  I  leave  the  task  to 
another  generation  of  climbers. 

Meanwhile  our  thoughts  pardonably  concen- 
trated themselves  on  the  important  question 
of  food.  Of  the  two  requisites  for  a  satisfactory 
meal,  one,  viz.,  the  provisions,  was  abundantly 
present.  I  fancied  too,  at  first,  that  my  appetite 
would  do  its  part;  but,  on  trying  to  swallow 
some  meat,  I  found  that  our  long  fast  since  the 
last  meal,  combined  with  the  baking  we  had 
undergone,  had  so  parched  my  mouth  that  the 
effort  was  useless.  My  thoughts  turned  to  a 
refreshing  cup  of  tea  and  a  bed  at  the  ^Eggisch- 
horn.  But,  alas!  the  inn  was  seven  hours  off; 
it  was  6  p.m.,  and  the  sun  near  setting.  Lauener 
mentioned  certain  wolldecken  and  some  coffee, 
which  he  believed  to  be  at  the  Faulberg;  and 
the  Faulberg,  though  we  knew  it  to  be  one  of 
those  caves   from  which   the  whole  of  one  side 


The  Eigcr-Joch  151 

and  the  roof  have  been  removed,  immediately 
seemed  to  us  to  be  the  pleasantest  hotel  in  Switzer- 
land. We  started  off  with  enthusiasm  to  gain 
it.  Passing  rapidly  round  the  great  snow-basin 
between  the  Monch  and  the  Trugberg,  we  easily 
reached  the  summit  of  the  M6nch-Joch ;  whence 
a  rather  steep  slope  leads  to  the  head  of  the 
glacier  called  the  Ewiger  Schnee.  At  foot  of 
the  fall,  which  is  perhaps  some  fifty  feet  high, 
is  a  bergschrund.  Lauener,  planting  his  feet 
in  the  snow  above,  prepared  to  lower  each  of 
us  by  the  rope.  Suddenly  G.  Mathews  lost  his 
footing,  shot  down  the  slope  like  a  flash  of  light- 
ning, and  disappeared  over  the  edge  of  the  berg- 
schrund. To  our  great  relief  we  immediately 
heard  him  call  out  "All  right!"  and  the  next 
moment  he  appeared,  full  of  snow,  but  otherwise 
none  the  worse  for  his  involuntary  glissade.  We 
followed  with  the  help  of  the  rope,  and  started 
down  the  glacier  once  more.  We  were  scarcely 
off  when  the  broad  reach  before  us  turned  first 
to  a  glorious  rose-colour,  and  then  faded  to  a 
livid  hue  as  the  light  crept  up  the  sides  of  the 
mountains.  Soon  they,  too,  turned  pale;  the 
glow  lingered  a  little  on  the  loftiest  peaks,  then 
faded  too,  and  left  us  to  the  light  of  the  moon, 
which  was  still  clear  enough  to  guide  us. 

Lauener   took    this    opportunity    of    remarking 


152        The  Playground  of  Europe 

that  he  had  been  very  unwell  for  three  days  be- 
fore, and  was  consequently  rather  tired.  He  added 
presently  that  he  could  not  see,  and  did  not  in 
the  least  know  where  he  was  going.  I  do  not 
implicitly  believe  either  of  these  statements, 
which  struck  me  as  being  rather  ill-timed.  How- 
ever, we  marched  steadily  forwards  in  a  long 
straggling  line  over  the  beautifully  even  surface 
of  the  glacier,  already  crisp  with  the  evening 
frost,  anxiously  watching  the  sinking  moon,  and 
calculating  whether  her  light  would  enable  us 
to  reach  the  Faulberg. 

We  were  making  good  progress,  and  the  hos- 
pitable Faulberg  was  coming  almost  into  sight, 
when  we  reached  the  point  where  the  glacier 
curls  over  for  a  steep  descent,  just  above  the 
confluence  of  the  glaciers  from  the  Lotschsattel 
and  Griinhornlucke.  Here  a  few  concealed 
crevasses,  causing  the  partial  disappearance  of 
some  of  our  party,  made  a  resort  to  the  rope 
necessary.  Fastening  ourselves  together,  we 
again  pressed  on  as  fast  as  we  could.  But  the 
crevasses  grew  more  numerous  and  broader, 
and  the  surface  of  the  ice  more  steeply  inclined. 
In  the  faint  moonlight  we  could  hardly  tell  what 
we  were  treading  upon — treacherous  snow-bridges 
or  slippery  slides  of  ice.  A  stumble  or  two  nearly 
brought    us   all    in    a   heap   together.      Moreover 


The  Eiger-Joch  1 53 

the  Aletschhorn  had  chosen  to  shove  its  head  up 
just  in  the  way  of  the  moon ;  and  at  last,  as  we 
were  all  getting  rather  puzzled  how  to  proceed, 
the  moon  suddenly  dipped  behind  it,  the  great 
shadow  of  the  mountain  shot  out  over  us,  and  we 
were  left  all  alone  in  the  dark.  Looking  hastily 
round  in  the  faint  twilight,  we  could  just  make 
out  a  great  mass  of  rock  on  our  right  hand.  This 
forms  part  of  the  great  promontory  which  divides 
the  two  main  branches  of  the  Aletsch  glacier. 
We  made  for  it  at  once,  found  no  crevasses  to 
stop  us,  and  stepped  once  more  off  the  ice  on  to 
dry  land.  We  unanimously  resolved  to  stay 
where  we  were  till  daylight  should  appear.  WTe 
unfastened  the  ropes,  took  a  glass  of  wine  all 
round,  and  determined  to  make  ourselves  com- 
fortable. Having  drunk  my  wine,  and  made  a 
perfectly  futile  attempt  to  swallow  a  bit  of  bread, 
I  put  on  a  pair  of  dry  stockings  which  I  had  in 
my  pocket  over  my  wet  ones,  stuck  my  feet  into 
a  knapsack,  and  sat  down  on  some  sharp  stones 
under  a  big  rock.  My  companions  most  obligingly 
sat  down  on  each  side  of  me,  which  tended  materi- 
ally to  keep  off  the  cold  night  wind,  and  one  of 
them  shared  my  knapsack.  My  seat  may  very 
easily  be  imitated  by  any  one  who  will  take  the 
trouble  to  fill  one  of  the  gutters  by  the  side  of 
a    paved    street   with   a   heap    of   granite   stones 


154       The  Playground  of  Europe 

prepared  for  macadamising  a  road.  If  he  will 
sit  down  there  for  a  frosty  night,  and  induce  a 
couple  of  friends  to  sit  with  him,  he  will  doubtless 
learn  to  sympathise  with  us.  Lauener  carefully 
warned  us  not  to  go  to  sleep,  and  I  think  I  may 
say  we  fulfilled  our  promise  of  obeying  his  in- 
junctions, with  the  exception  of  a  doze  or  two 
towards  morning.  Lauener  himself  rose  at  once 
into  exuberant  spirits.  His  good  temper  and 
fun  seemed  to  rise  with  the  occasion;  and  after 
telling  us  a  variety  of  anecdotes,  beginning  with 
chamois-hunting  and  ending  (of  all  things  in  the 
world)  with  examinations — for  it  seems  that 
Swiss  guides  share,  with  undergraduates,  this 
particular  form  of  misery — he  retired  to  the 
nook  which  the  Chamouni  guides  had  selected, 
and,  to  the  best  of  my  belief,  passed  the  rest  of 
the  night  in  chaffing  them. 

There  is,  of  course,  something  disagreeable  in 
passing  a  night  "squirming"  (to  use  an  Ameri- 
canism) on  a  heap  of  stones,  and  making  fruitless 
endeavours  to  arrange  their  sharp  corners  into 
a  soft  surface  to  sit  upon,  by  a  series  of  scientific 
wriggles.  I  fully  expected  to  get  up  in  the  morn- 
ing stuck  all  over  with  pebbles,  like  a  large  pat 
of  butter  dropped  into  a  sugar  basin.  In  other 
respects  I  believe  I  really  enjoyed  the  night. 
The  cold  was  not  intense,  and   in  fact  I  rarely 


The  Eiger-Joch  155 

felt  it  at  all.  Partly  the  excitement,  and  partly 
the  beauty  of  the  perfectly  still  and  silent  night 
prevented  its  seeming  long.  The  huge  snow- 
covered  mountains  that  glimmered  faintly  through 
the  darkness,  the  long  glorious  glacier,  half  seen 
as  it  swept  away  from  our  feet,  and  the  perfect 
stillness  of  the  scene,  were  very  striking.  We 
felt  that  our  little  party  was  in  absolute  solitude 
in  the  very  centre  of  the  greatest  waste  of  ice 
and  bare  rock  in  the  Alps.  I  will  not,  however, 
deny  that  towards  morning  I  got  a  little  chilly, 
not  to  say  sulky.  Gradually  the  mountain  forms 
became  more  distinct,  the  outlines  of  rock  and 
snow  showed  themselves  more  plainly,  and  I 
was  quite  surprised,  on  looking  at  my  watch 
for  the  first  time,  to  find  that  it  was  half-past 
two,  and  to  see  Lauener  coming  to  tell  us  it  was 
time  to  start. 

We  jumped  up,  shook  ourselves,  struggled  into 
our  frozen  boots,  and  made  a  futile  attempt  at 
breakfast.  The  dangers  of  the  darkness  had 
disappeared ;  but  the  pleasure  and  excitement 
had  gone  too,  and  it  was  a  right  dreary  walk 
that  morning  to  the  /Eggischhorn.  The  Aletsch 
glacier  is  intersected  by  a  number  of  little  cre- 
vasses, just  too  broad  to  step  and  wide  enough  to 
tire  weary  men.  As  we  walked  on  down  its 
broad    monotonous   surface.    I    was   surprised    to 


156        The  Playground  of  Europe 

find  how  extremely  ugly  everything  looked.  It 
was  a  beautiful  day,  and  before  us,  as  we  ap- 
proached the  Marjelen  See,  rose  one  of  the  love- 
liest of  Alpine  views — the  Matterhorn,  flanked 
by  the  noble  pyramids  of  the  Mischabel  and 
Weisshorn.  I  looked  at  it  with  utter  indif- 
ference, and  thought  what  I  should  order  for 
breakfast.  Bodily  fatigue  and  appreciation  of 
natural  scenery  are  simply  incompatible.  We 
somehow  contrived  to  split  into  three  parties, 
and  the  rapidity  with  which  we  lost  sight  of 
each  other  was  a  curious  proof  of  the  vast  size 
of  the  glacier.  A  party  of  our  friends  passed  us 
on  their  way  from  the  yEggischhorn  to  the  Jung- 
frau-Joch,  but  we  failed  to  see  them.  The  utter 
insignificance  of  a  human  figure  on  these  wastes 
of  ice  is  one  of  the  first  things  by  which  we  learn 
to  appreciate  their  vast  size. 

Lauener  and  I  found  our  way  to  some  chalets, 
where  a  draught  of  warm  milk  was  truly  refresh- 
ing. I  need  hardly  say  that  after  it  we  managed 
to  lose  our  way  over  the  abominable  slopes  of  the 
yEggischhorn.  Shoulder  after  shoulder  of  that 
dreary  mountain  came  out  in  endless  succession, 
and  I  was  glad  enough  to  see  the  friendly  little 
white  house  a  little  before  nine  o'clock,  and  to 
rejoin  my  friends  over  a  luxurious  breakfast 
provided  by  its  admirable  landlord. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  JUNGFRAU-JOCH 

Three  years  afterwards  I  was  once  more 
standing  upon  the  Wengern  Alp,  and  gazing 
longingly  at  the  Jungfrau-Joch.  Surely  the 
Wengern  Alp  must  be  precisely  the  loveliest 
place  in  this  world.  To  hurry  past  it,  and  listen 
to  the  roar  of  the  avalanches,  is  a  very  unsatis- 
factory mode  of  enjoyment;  it  reminds  one 
too  much  of  letting  off  crackers  in  a  cathedral. 
The  mountains  seem  to  be  accomplices  of  the 
people  who  charge  fifty  centimes  for  an  echo. 
But  it  does  one's  moral  nature  good  to  linger 
there  at  sunset  or  in  the  early  morning,  when 
tourists  have  ceased  from  travelling  and  the 
jaded  cockney  may  enjoy  a  kind  of  spiritual 
bath  in  the  soothing  calmness  of  the  scenery. 
It  is  delicious  to  lie  upon  the  short  crisp  turf 
under  the  Lauberhorn,  to  listen  to  the  distant 
cow-bells,  and  to  try  to  catch  the  moment  at 
which  the  last  glow  dies  off  the  summit  of  the 
Jungfrau ;  or  to  watch  a  light  summer  mist 
driving  by,  and  the  great  mountains  look  through 

157 


1 58        The  Playground  of  Europe 

its  rents  at  intervals  from  an  apparently  im- 
possible height  above  the  clouds.  It  is  pleasant 
to  look  out  in  the  early  morning  from  one  of  the 
narrow  windows,  when  the  Jungfrau  seems  grad- 
ually to  mould  itself  out  of  darkness,  slowly 
to  reveal  every  fold  of  its  torn  glaciers,  and  then 
to  light  up  with  an  ethereal  fire.  The  mountain 
might  almost  be  taken  for  the  original  of  the 
exquisite  lines  in  Tithonus: 

Once  more  the  old  mysterious  glimmer  steals 
From  thy  pure  brows,  and  from  thy  shoulders  pure 
And  bosom  beating  with  a  heart  renewed. 
Thy  sweet  eyes  brighten  slowly  close  to  mine 
E'er  yet  they  blind  the  stars;  and  the  wild  team 
That  love  thee,  yearning  for  thy  yoke,  arise 
And  shake  the  darkness  from  their  loosened  manes, 
And  beat  the  sunlight  into  flakes  of  fire. 

We,  that  is  a  little  party  of  six  Englishmen 
with  six  Oberland  guides,  who  left  the  inn  at 
3  a.m.,  on  July  20,  1862,  were  not,  perhaps,  in 
a  specially  poetical  mood.  Yet  as  the  sun  rose 
whilst  we  were  climbing  the  huge  buttress  of 
the  Monch,  the  dullest  of  us — I  refer  of  course 
to  myself — felt  something  of  the  spirit  of  the 
scenery.  The  day  was  cloudless,  and  a  vast 
inverted  cone  of  dazzling  rays  suddenly  struck 
upwards  into  the  sky  through  the  gap  between 
the  Monch  and  the  Eiger;    which,  as  some  effect 


The  Jungfrau-Joch  1 59 

of  perspective  shifted  its  apparent  position, 
looked  like  a  glory  streaming  from  the  very 
summit  of  the  Eiger.  It  was  a  good  omen,  if 
not  in  any  more  remote  sense,  yet  as  promising 
a  fine  day.  After  a  short  climb  we  descended 
upon  the  Guggi  glacier,  most  lamentably  un- 
poetical  of  names,  and  mounted  by  it  to  the 
great  plateau  which  lies  below  the  cliffs  imme- 
diately under  the  col.  We  reached  this  at  about 
seven,  and,  after  a  short  meal,  carefully  examined 
the  route  above  us.  Half-way  between  us  and 
the  col  lay  a  small  and  apparently  level  plateau 
of  snow.  Once  upon  it  we  felt  confident  that 
we  could  get  to  the  top.  But  between  us  and 
it  lay  a  broken  and  distorted  mass  of  crevassed 
glacier,  the  passage  of  which  seemed  very  doubt- 
ful. We  might,  however,  turn  part  of  this  by 
creeping  up  a  mass  of  icy  debris,  which  lay  at 
the  foot  of  a  cliff  of  protruding  ice,  the  abrupt 
end  of  a  glacier  crawling  down  over  the  cliffs 
above  us.  The  process  would  be  precisely  equiv- 
alent to  walking  in  front  of  a  battery  of  cannon 
which  might  open  fire  at  any  moment.  There 
is  something  about  the  apparent  repose  of  the 
icy  masses,  and,  it  must  be  added,  the  rarity  of 
a  fall,  which  tempts  one  strongly  to  run  an  oc- 
casional risk  of  the  kind.  In  the  present  instance 
our  guides  were  certainly  awake  to  the  danger. 


160       The  Playground  of  Europe 

So  unpromising,  however,  was  the  appearance 
of  the  distorted  glacier  upon  our  right,  that 
three  of  them  went  forwards  to  examine  this 
smoother  but  more  treacherous  route.  We  sat 
down  and  watched  them,  not  without  some 
anxiety.  But  after  the  pleasant  process  of  cutting 
steps  for  half  an  hour  under  a  mass  of  glacier 
in  an  uncertain  condition  of  equilibrium,  they 
returned  to  us  with  the  news  that  farther  ascent 
by  this  route  was  impracticable  as  well  as  dan- 
gerous. No  alternative  was  now  left  but  to 
examine  the  maze  of  crevasses  on  our  right. 
Christian  Michel,  Christian  Aimer,  and  Kauf- 
mami  accordingly  went  forwards  to  try  to 
penetrate  it.  We  watched  them  creeping  for- 
wards round  the  base  of  a  huge  pinnacle  of  ice, 
at  the  other  side  of  which  they  disappeared. 
We  sat  quietly  on  the  snow,  finished  our  break- 
fast, and  smoked  our  pipes.  Morgan  sang  us 
some  of  the  songs  of  his  native  land  (Wales) ; 
somebody  occasionally  struck  in  with  an  English 
chorus;  Baumann  irrelevantly  contributed  a 
few  German  verses.  Gradually  our  songs  died 
away,  and  we  took  to  contemplating  the  scenery. 
Morgan,  who  had  spoken  very  disparagingly 
of  the  Wengem  Alp  as  compared  with  the  scenery 
of  Pcn-y-Gwryd,  admitted  that  our  present  view 
was    not   unlike    that    above   the    Llyn    Llydaw, 


The  Jungfrau-Joch  i6j 

on  the  side  of  Snowdon,  though,  as  he  urged, 
the  quantity  of  snow  rather  spoilt  it.  Gradually 
our  conversation  slackened.  The  only  sound 
was  the  barking  of  an  invisible  dog  at  the  Wengern 
Alp,  which  came  sharp  and  distinct  through 
the  clear  mountain  air  from  the  distant  inn. 
Nothing  could  be  heard  or  seen  of  the  three 
guides  who  had  gone  forwards.  A  very  long 
interval  seemed  to  have  passed  away. 

We  all  sat  looking  at  each  other  in  an  uncom- 
fortable frame  of  mind,  feeling  an  amount  of 
anxiety  which  we  were  unwilling  to  express. 
I  could  not  avoid  the  recollection  that  the  last 
time  Christian  Aimer  had  left  me  on  a  glacier, 
I  had  only  found  him  again  with  two  of  his  ribs 
broken.  When  George  said  something  about 
going  to  look  for  our  lost  guides,  we  scouted 
his  proposition  with  a  determination  proportioned 
to  our  wish  not  to  believe  in  its  necessity.  Our 
nervousness  was,  however,  gradually  becoming 
intolerable,  and  we  were  about  to  decide  that 
something  must  be  done.  Suddenly,  after  at 
least  two  hours'  waiting,  we  heard  a  faint  shout. 
Looking  upwards,  we  could  just  distinguish 
three  black  figures  at  the  edge  of  the  small  snow 
plateau.  "What  do  they  say,  Michel?  Are  we 
to  come?"  "Nein,  1 1  err."  "And  what  is  it 
that  they  are  saying  now?"     "Something  about 


162       The  Playground  of  Europe 

a  heilloser  schrund"  which  I  take  to  be  a  schrund 
of  such  enormity  as  to  be  past  praying  for.  They 
were  evidently  repulsed.  We  sat  down  on  the 
snow  in  what  I  may  call  a  ruffled  frame  of  mind, 
and  waited  for  their  return.  Morgan  quoted  a 
proverb  in  Welsh — the  only  literary  remains  of 
one  of  the  greatest  of  Welsh  sages,  Anarawd, 
so  he  informed  us — the  translation  of  it  being 
"For  the  impatient  patience  is  needful,"  or  words 
to  that  effect.  Whilst  we  were  discussing  the 
least  ignominious  way  of  getting  to  the  JEggisch- 
horn  under  the  circumstances,  our  guides  re- 
appeared. They  had  been  stopped,  they  told 
us,  by  a  huge  crevasse,  thirty  feet  broad  in  places, 
and  running  right  across  the  glacier,  dividing 
it  into  two  distinct  fragments;  once  beyond  it, 
we  should  have  won  the  day,  and  by  means  of 
a  ladder  twenty -five  feet  long  they  thought  it 
might  be  possible  to  get  over  it  at  one  point. 
All  our  despondency  was  over.  We  unanimously 
resolved  to  go  back  to  the  Wengem  Alp  and 
send  down  for  a  ladder;  and,  accordingly,  the 
same  evening,  the  ladder  appeared  in  charge 
of  one  Peter  Rubi,  a  man  who  possesses  in  great 
perfection  the  weight-carrying  powers  of  the 
Oberland  guides  in  general. 

The  next   morning,   starting  at   3.05,   we  had 
arrived    at   the   same   place   as   before,   at   6.12. 


The  Jungfrau-Joch  163 

We  plunged  at  once  into  the  maze  of  crevasses, 
finding  our  passage  much  facilitated  by  the 
previous  efforts  of  our  guides.  We  had  to  wind 
round  towers  of  ice  intrenched  by  deep  crevasses, 
carefully  treading  in  our  guides'  well-cut  foot- 
holds. A  clinometer,  which  showed  various 
symptoms  of  eccentricity  throughout  the  day, 
made  some  specially  strong  statements  at  this 
point.  By  interrogating  one  of  these  instruments 
judiciously,  the  inclination  of  Holborn  Hill  may 
be  brought  to  approximate  to  900.  A  more 
serious  inconvenience  was  derived  from  the 
extremely  unsteady  condition  of  the  towering 
ice-pinnacles  around  us.  We  were  constantly 
walking  over  ground  strewed  with  crumbling 
blocks  of  ice,  the  recent  fall  of  which  was  proved 
by  their  sharp  white  fractures,  and  with  a  thing 
like  an  infirm  toadstool  twenty  feet  high  towering 
above  our  heads.  Once  we  passed  under  a  nat- 
ural arch  of  ice,  built  in  evident  disregard  of  all 
principles  of  architectural  stability.  Hurrying 
judiciously  at  such  critical  points,  and  creeping 
slowly  round  those  where  the  footing  was  dif- 
ficult, we  managed  to  thread  the  labyrinth  safely, 
whilst  Rubi  appeared  to  think  it  rather  pleasant 
than  otherwise  in  such  places  to  have  his  head 
fixed  in  a  kind  of  pillory  between  two  rungs  of 
a  ladder,  with  twelve  feet  of  it  sticking  out  behind 


164       The  Playground  of  Europe 

and  twelve  feet  before  him.  We  reached  the 
gigantic  crevasse  at  7.35.  We  passed  along  it 
to  a  point  where  its  two  lips  nearly  joined,  and 
the  side  farthest  from  us  was  considerably  higher 
than  that  upon  which  we  stood.  Fixing  the 
foot  of  the  ladder  upon  this  ledge,  we  swung  the 
top  over,  and  found  that  it  rested  satisfactorily 
against  the  opposite  bank.  Aimer  crept  up  it, 
and  made  the  top  firmer  by  driving  his  axe  into 
the  snow  underneath  the  highest  step.  The 
rest  of  us  followed,  carefully  roped,  and  with 
the  caution  to  rest  our  knees  on  the  sides  of 
the  ladder,  as  several  of  the  steps  were  extremely 
weak — -a  remark  which  was  equally  applicable 
to  one,  at  least,  of  the  sides.  We  crept  up  the 
rickety  old  machine,  however,  looking  down 
between  our  legs  into  the  blue  depths  of  the 
crevasse,  and  at  8.15  the  whole  party  found 
itself  satisfactorily  perched  on  the  edge  of  the 
nearly  level  snow  plateau,  looking  up  at  the 
long  slopes  of  broken  neve  that  led  to  the  col. 

A  little  discussion  nowT  ensued  as  to  the  route 
to  be  taken.  The  most  obvious  way  was  through 
the  steep  seracs  immediately  under  the  snowy 
col.  The  guides,  however,  determined  upon 
trying  to  turn  these  by  cutting  their  way  up  the 
steady  slopes  more  to  the  right.  Aimer  and 
Michel    accordingly    went    forward    and    set    to 


The  Jungfrau-Joch  165 

work,  whilst  we  indulged  in  a  second  anomalous 
meal.  For  a  time  they  went  on  merrily.  The 
snow  was  in  good  order,  and  required  only  a 
single  blow  from  the  axe.  The  fragments  which 
rolled  down  upon  us  were  soft  and  harmless. 
Soon,  however,  they  began  to  be  mixed  with 
suspicious  lumps  of  hard  blue  ice.  Aimer  and 
Michel  seemed  to  be  crawling  forwards  more 
and  more  slowly.  The  labour  was  evidently 
considerable  for  every  foot  of  progress  won.  I 
began  to  remember,  with  increasing  distinctness, 
our  experience  of  the  exactly  corresponding 
place  on  the  Eiger-Joch.  The  slopes  through 
which  we  had  there  cut  our  way  were  neither  so 
long  nor  so  steep  as  those  now  before  us,  and 
the  snow  here  was  equally  hard.  Fortune  seemed 
to  be  turning  against  us.  Our  spirits,  which 
had  risen  with  the  successful  passage  of  the 
crevasse,  began  to  fall  again.  The  prospect  of 
a  return  through  unsteady  seracs  in  the  heat  of 
the  day,  to  present  ourselves  a  second  time  to 
the  jeers  of  tourists  on  the  Wengern  Alp,  was 
not  attractive.  Our  cheerful  reflections  were 
arrested  by  the  return  of  Michel  and  Aimer. 
They  agreed  that  the  staircase  on  which  they 
had  now  spent  an  hour's  work  must  be  abandoned  ; 
but  we  might  still  try  the  great  wall  of  seracs  on 
the  left.      It  would   be    very  hard   to  give  to  any 


1 66        The  Playground  of  Europe 

but  Alpine  readers  the  least  notion  of  what  the 
task  before  us  was  like.  I  reject  unhesitatingly 
Morgan's  statement  that  it  was  exactly  similar 
to  the  ascent  of  the  Glydirs  from  Llyn  Ogwen. 
We  had  to  climb  a  wall  built  of  seracs,  their 
interstices  plastered  up  with  snow,  and  the  whole 
inclined  at  an  angle  of  between  500  and  6o°. 
Every  now  and  then,  where  the  masonry  had 
been  inferior,  a  great  knob  of  serac  protruded, 
tilting  up  the  snow  to  a  steep  angle,  and  giving 
us  a  block  of  solid  ice  to  circumvent.  Deep 
crevasses,  arranged  on  no  particular  principle, 
intersected  this  charming  wall  in  every  direction 
where  they  were  not  wanted.  It  may  be  tolerably 
represented  by  imagining  the  seracs  of  the  Col 
du  Geant  filled  up,  and  jammed  together  by 
their  weight  at  a  steep  angle.  Michel  and  Aimer 
led  the  way  rapidly  and  eagerly.  Sometimes 
we  could  get  on  for  a  few  paces  in  snow:  some- 
times the  axe  was  called  into  play.  But  we  all 
pushed  forwards  as  fast  as  we  could,  and  in 
dangerous  places  those  who  had  passed  professed 
to  help  the  others,  by  hauling  in  the  rope  as 
hard  as  they  could.  When  the  man  behind  was 
also  engaged  in  hauling  himself  up  by  the  rope 
attached  to  your  waist,  when  the  two  portions 
of  the  rope  formed  an  acute  angle,  when  your 
footing  was  confined  to  the  insecure  grip  of  one 


The  Jungfrau-Joch  167 

toe  on  a  slippery  bit  of  ice,  and  when  a  great 
hummock  of  hard  serac  was  pressing  against 
the  pit  of  your  stomach  and  reducing  you  to  a 
position  of  neutral  equilibrium,  the  result  was 
a  feeling  of  qualified  acquiescence  in  Michel  or 
Aimer's  lively  suggestion  of  "Vorwarts!  vor- 
warts!" 

Somehow  or  other  we  did  ascend.  The  excite- 
ment made  the  time  seem  short;  and  after  what 
seemed  to  me  to  be  half  an  hour,  which  was  in 
fact  nearly  two  hours,  we  had  crept,  crawled, 
climbed,  and  wormed  our  way  through  various 
obstacles,  till  we  found  ourselves  brought  up 
by  a  huge  overhanging  wall  of  blue  ice.  This 
wall  was  no  doubt  the  upper  side  of  a  crevasse, 
the  lower  part  of  which  had  been  filled  by  snow- 
drift. Its  face  was  honeycombed  by  the  usual 
hemispherical  chippings,  and  somehow  always 
reminds  me  of  the  fretted  walls  of  the  Alhambra ; 
and  it  was  actually  hollowed  out  so  that  its  upper 
edge  overhung  our  heads  at  a  height  of  some 
twenty  or  thirty  feet;  the  long  fringe  of  icicles 
which  adorned  it  had  made  a  slippery  pathway 
of  ice  two  or  three  feet  distant  from  the  foot 
of  the  wall  by  the  freezing  water  which  dripped 
from  them;  and  along  this  we  crept,  in  the  hope 
that  none  of  the  icicles  would  come  down  bodily. 
The  wall  seemed  to  thin  out  and  become  much 


1 68        The  Playground  of  Europe 

lower  towards  our  left,  and  we  moved  cautiously 
towards  its  lowest  point.  The  edge  upon  which 
we  walked  was  itself  very  narrow,  and  ran  down 
at  a  steep  angle  to  the  top  of  a  lower  icefall  which 
repeated  the  form  of  the  upper.  It  almost  thinned 
out  at  the  point  where  the  upper  wall  was  lowest. 
Upon  this  inclined  ledge,  however,  we  fixed  the 
foot  of  our  ladder.  The  difficulty  of  doing  so 
conveniently  was  increased  by  a  transverse  crevasse 
which  here  intersected  the  other  system.  The 
foot,  however,  was  fixed  and  rendered  tolerably 
safe  by  driving  in  firmly  several  of  our  alpen- 
stocks and  axes  under  the  lowest  step.  Aimer, 
then,  amidst  great  excitement,  went  forward  to 
mount  it.  Should  we  still  find  an  impassable 
system  of  crevasses  above  us,  or  were  we  close 
to  the  top?  A  gentle  breeze  which  had  been 
playing  along  the  last  ledge  gave  me  hope  that 
we  were  really  not  far  off.  As  Aimer  reached  the 
top  about  twelve  o'clock,  a  loud  jodel  gave  notice 
to  all  the  party  that  our  prospects  were  good.  I 
soon  followed,  and  saw,  to  my  great  delight,  a 
stretch  of  smooth  white  snow,  without  a  single 
crevasse,  rising  in  a  gentle  curve  from  our  feet 
io  the  top  of  the  col. 

The  people  who  had  been  watching  us  from 
the  Wengem  Alp  had  been  firing  salutes  all 
day,  whenever  the  idea  struck  them,  and  when- 


The  Jungfrau-Joch  169 

ever  we  surmounted  a  difficulty,  such  as  the 
first  great  crevasse.  We  heard  the  faint  sound 
of  two  or  three  guns  as  we  reached  the  final  pla- 
teau. We  should,  properly  speaking,  have  been 
uproariously  triumphant  over  our  victory.  To 
say  the  truth,  our  party  of  that  summer  was  only 
too  apt  to  break  out  into  undignified  explosions 
of  animal  spirits,  bordering  at  times  upon  horse- 
play. I  can  imagine  that  a  sentimental  worshipper 
of  the  beauties  of  nature  would  have  been  rather 
shocked  at  the  execrable  jokes  which  excited 
our  laughter  in  the  grandest  scenery,  and  would 
have  better  become  schoolboys  than  respect- 
able college  authorities.  There  are  purists  who 
hold  that  the  outside  limits  of  becoming  mirth 
should  be  a  certain  decorous  cheerfulness; 
Milton,  they  think,  has  indicated  the  tone  of 
sentiment  appropriate  to  the  contemplation  of 
nature  by  making  the  Allegro  as  sober  as  the 
Penseroso;  and  they  would  have  set  us  down 
as  heartless  despisers  of  the  charms  of  sublime 
scenery.  I  will  not  undertake  our  defence  at 
present,  and  only  beg  my  readers  to  excuse  us, 
if  they  can,  on  the  ground  of  that  national  re- 
ticence which  is  so  great  a  convenience  for  people 
who  have  no  sentiment  to  hide.  Let  them  believe, 
or  try  to  believe,  that  we  were  as  sensitive  as 
Mr.  Ruskin  himself  to  the   charms  of   the  raoun- 


170       The  Playground  of  Europe 

tains,  and  put  on  a  mask  of  outward  mirth  only 
by  way  of  concealing  our  "great  disposition  to 
cry."  At  this  point  of  our  journey,  however, 
neither  emotion  made  itself  manifest.  The  top 
of  the  Jungfrau-Joch  comes  rather  like  a 
bathos  in  poetry.  It  rises  so  gently  above  the 
steep  ice  wall,  and  it  is  so  difficult  to  determine 
the  precise  culminating  point,  that  our  enthusi- 
asm oozed  out  gradually  instead  of  producing  a 
sudden  explosion;  and  that  instead  of  giving 
three  cheers,  singing  "God  Save  the  Queen," 
or  observing  any  of  the  traditional  ceremonial 
of  a  simpler  generation  of  travellers,  we  calmly 
walked  forwards  as  though  we  had  been  crossing 
Westminster  Bridge,  and  on  catching  sight  of 
a  small  patch  of  rocks  near  the  foot  of  the  Monch, 
rushed  precipitately  down  to  it  and  partook  of 
our  third  breakfast.  Which  things,  like  most 
others,  might  easily  be  made  into  an  allegory. 
The  great  dramatic  moments  of  life  are  very 
apt  to  fall  singularly  flat.  We  manage  to  dis- 
count all  their  interest  beforehand ;  and  are 
amazed  to  find  that  the  day  to  which  we  have 
looked  forward  so  long — the  day,  it  may  be,  of 
our  marriage,  or  ordination,  or  election  to  be 
Lord  Mayor — finds  us  curiously  unconscious  of 
any  sudden  transformation  and  as  strongly  in- 
inclined  to  prosaic  eating  and  drinking  as  usual. 


The  Jungfrau-Joch  171 

At  a  later  period  we  may  become  conscious  of 
its  true  significance,  and  perhaps  the  satisfactory 
conquest  of  this  new  pass  has  given  us  more 
pleasure  in  later  years  than  it  did  at  the  moment. 
However  that  may  be,  we  got  under  way  again 
after  a  meal  and  a  chat,  our  friends  Messrs. 
George  and  Moore  descending  the  Aletsch  glacier 
to  the  .zEggischhorn,  whose  summit  was  already 
in  sight,  and  deceptively  near  in  appearance. 
The  remainder  of  the  party  soon  turned  off  to 
the  left,  and  ascended  the  snow-slopes  to  the 
gap  between  the  Monch  and  Trugberg.  As  we 
passed  these  huge  masses,  rising  in  solitary 
grandeur  from  the  centre  of  one  of  the  noblest 
snowy  wastes  of  the  Alps,  Morgan  reluctantly 
confessed  for  the  first  time  that  he  knew  nothing 
exactly  like  it  in  Wales.  We  ploughed  on  in  the 
mid-day  sun,  Rubi  trailing  the  ladder  behind  us 
with  singular  cease  and  content.  We  were  not 
sorry  to  reach  the  top  of  the  Monch-Joch,  and 
dropped  down  through  the  complicated  crevasses 
beyond  to  the  Grind elwald  side.  Rubi  deposited 
his  ladder  at  the  foot  of  the  great  icefall  af- 
ter thirteen  hours'  companionship ;  and  at  nine 
o'clock  we  returned  to  the  Adler  at  Grindelwald, 
having  made  a  new  and  interesting  high-level 
route  from  the  Wengern  Alp. 

On    sitting    down    to    supper,    T    discovered    a 


i/2        The  Playground  of  Europe 

large  wound  in  my  ankle.  On  exhibiting  this 
to  a  medical  friend  next  morning,  he  asked  for 
my  clasp-knife.  Extracting  from  it  a  very  blunt 
and  rusty  lancet,  and  observing  that  it  would 
probably  hurt  me  very  much,  he  quietly  took 
hold  of  my  leg,  and,  as  it  appeared  to  me,  drove 
the  aforesaid  lancet  right  through  my  ankle 
with  a  pleasant  grin.  He  then  recommended 
me  to  lie  down  on  the  sofa,  and  keep  my  foot 
higher  than  my  head.  I  obeyed  his  directions, 
and  remained  in  this  attitude  (which  is  rather 
commodious  than  elegant)  for  eight  consecutive 
days  of  glorious  summer  weather.  I  had  the 
pleasure  (through  a  telescope)  of  seeing  my 
friends  one  day  on  the  Wetterhorn  and  another 
on  the  Eiger.  I  read  through  the  whole  liter- 
ature of  the  village,  consisting  of  an  odd  number 
of  the  Illustrated,  half  a  Bells  Life,  and  Tenny- 
son's Princess,  about  a  dozen  times,  and  oc- 
casionally induced  two  faithful  companions  to 
trot  me  round  the  house  in  a  chaise-ti-porteiir. 

I  studied  with  a  philosophic  eye  the  nature 
of  that  offensive  variety  of  the  genus  of  primates, 
the  common  tourist.  His  main  specialities,  as 
it  seems  to  me  from  many  observations,  are, 
first  and  chiefly,  a  rooted  aversion  to  mountain 
scenery;  secondly,  a  total  incapacity  to  live 
without  the  Times;    and  thirdly,  a  deeply-seated 


The  Jungfrau-Joch  173 

conviction  that  foreigners  generally  are  members 
of  a  secret  society  intended  to  extort  money 
on  false  pretences.  The  cause  of  his  travelling 
is  wrapped  in  mystery.  Sometimes  I  have  re- 
garded him  as  a  missionary  intended  to  show  by 
example  the  delights  of  a  British  Sunday.  Never, 
at  least,  does  he  shine  with  such  obvious  com- 
placency as  when,  armed  with  an  assortment 
of  hymn-books  and  Bibles,  he  evicts  all  the 
inferior  races  from  the  dining-room  of  an  hotel. 
Perhaps  he  is  doing  penance  for  sharp  practices 
at  home;  and  offers  himself  up  for  a  time  to 
be  the  victim  of  the  despised  native,  as  a  trifling 
expiation  of  his  offences.  This  view  is  confirmed 
by  the  spirit  in  which  he  visits  the  better  known 
places  of  pilgrimage.  He  likes  a  panoramic 
view  in  proportion  to  the  number  of  peaks  which 
he  can  count,  which,  I  take  it,  is  a  method  of 
telling  his  beads;  he  is  doomed  to  see  a  certain 
number  of  objects,  and  the  more  he  can  take 
in  at  one  dose,  the  better.  Further,  he  comforts 
himself  for  his  sufferings  under  sublime  scen- 
ery by  enjoying  those  conundrums  in  stone— if 
they  may  be  so  called — which  are  to  be  found 
even  in  the  mountains.  A  rock  that  imitates 
the  shape  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington's  nose  gives 
him  unspeakable  delight;  and  he  is  very  fond 
of  a   place  near  Grindelwald   where   St.   Martin 


174        The  Playground  of  Europe 

is  supposed  to  have  thrust  his  staff  through 
one  hill  and  marked  the  opposite  slope  by  sitting 
down  with  extreme  vigour.  Some  kind  of  linger- 
ing fetish  worship  is  probably  to  be  traced  in 
these  curious  observances.  Although  the  presence 
of  this  species  is  very  annoying,  I  do  not  think 
myself  justified  in  advocating  any  scheme  for 
their  extirpation,  such  as  leaving  arsenic  about, 
as  is  done  by  some  intelligent  colonists  in  parallel 
cases,  or  by  tempting  them  into  dangerous  parts 
of  the  mountains.  I  should  be  perfectly  satisfied 
if  they  could  be  confined  to  a  few  penal  settle- 
ments in  the  less  beautiful  valleys.  Or,  at  least, 
let  some  few  favoured  places  be  set  apart  for  a 
race  who  certainly  are  as  disagreeable  to  other 
persons  as  others  can  be  to  them — I  mean  the 
genuine  enthusiasts,  or  climbing  monomaniacs. 

Milder  sentiments  returned   as  my  health  im- 
proved. 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE   VIESCHER-JOCH 


On  the  eighth  day,  July  29th,  my  leg  was  nearly 
well,  and  tying  it  up  in  a  handkerchief,  I  resolved 
to  get  on  to  my  feet  once  more,  and  make  another 
pass  across  the  Oberland.  The  same  evening 
four  of  us  (Hardy,  Liveing,  Morgan,  and  I),  with 
the  two  Michels,  Baumann,  C.  Bohren,  and 
Inabnit,  were  the  occupants  of  the  Kastenstein, 
a  kind  of  burrow  under  a  big  stone  at  the  foot 
of  the  Strahleck  Pass.  A  more  glorious  evening 
and  a  more  lovely  place  for  a  bivouac  I  never 
saw.  The  long  line  of  cliff  from  the  Finsteraar- 
horn  to  the  Eiger  was  in  front  of  us.  At  their 
feet  lay  the  vast  reservoirs  of  snow,  from  which 
the  huge  Grindelwald  glacier  pours  down  right 
into  the  meadows  and  corn-fields  below.  Looking 
down  the  great  ice-stream  through  the  mighty 
gateway  whose  pillars  are  the  Eiger  and  the 
Mcttelhorn,  we  had  our  one  glimpse  of  vegetation 
and  habitable  regions.  The  faint  reflection  of 
the  flashes  of  summer  lightning  showed  us  at 
intervals    the    clear    outline    of    the    snow-fields 

175 


1 76        The  Playground  of  Europe 

opposite,  and  one  glimmering  spark  marked  the 
resting-place  of  some  friends  who  were  to  cross 
the  Monch-Joch  next  day.  Some  discordant 
shrieks  from  our  guides  made  the  summer  night 
hideous,  but  probably  failed  to  reach  the  ears 
of  our  next  neighbours  at  a  distance  of  three  or 
four  miles.  We  certainly  heard  no  response, 
and  crept  into  our  burrow,  where  I  need  only 
say  that  four  of  us  were  packed  between  a  couple 
of  nubbly  rocks,  some  two  feet  apart,  and  reduced 
into  that  kind  of  mass  which  "moveth  altogether 
if  it  move  at  all." 

At  4.55  next  morning,  very  much  later  than 
was  either  necessary  or  advisable,  we  were  off. 
Crossing  the  crisp  surface  of  level  glacier  beneath 
us,  we  arrived  at  the  foot  of  a  series  of  snow- 
slopes,  which  rise  from  the  highest  reach  of  the 
Grindelwald  glacier  to  the  eastern  face  of  the 
Viescherhorn.  Seen  from  this  side,  the  lesser 
Viescherhorn  (or  Ochsenhorn)  rises  in  a  double- 
headed  form;  the  peak  towards  the  Finsteraar- 
horn  being  bounded  by  a  rounded  outline,  and 
divided  by  a  saddle  from  the  sharper  peak  towards 
the  north.  Immediately  below  this  saddle  lies 
a  comparatively  level  plain.  Two  or  three  ridges 
starting  from  it  partition  off  the  secondary 
glaciers,  which  descend  steeply  through  deep 
gorges    to    the    Grindelwald    glacier.      The    most 


The  Viescher-Joch  177 

obvious  plan  would  perhaps  be  to  ascend  that 
glacier  which  starts  from  the  actual  col,  south 
of  the  rounder  point  of  the  Viescherhorn  and 
between  it  and  the  Finsteraarhorn.  The  lower 
part  of  this  glacier  is,  however,  torn  by  numerous 
crevasses,  and  its  upper  part  divided  from  the 
col  by  long  and  very  steep  snow-slopes.  We 
therefore  preferred  to  ascend  at  once  by  the 
first  glacier  whose  foot  we  reached,  and  which 
appears  to  form  nearly  a  straight  line  from  the 
sharper  summit  of  the  Viescherhorn  to  the  Grin- 
delwald  glacier.  This  glacier  was  itself  torn  by 
huge  transverse  crevasses  in  more  than  one 
place.  We  toiled  slowly  up  it  in  a  long  line, 
dragging  behind  us  a  ladder,  which  our  experience 
on  the  Jungfrau-Joch  had  induced  us  to  lug 
along  with  us.  The  abominable  machine  acted 
rather  like  the  log  sometimes  attached  to  a 
donkey's  leg.  It  trailed  heavily  and  deeply 
behind  us.  It  of  course  abridged  more  or  less 
our  passage  of  some  of  the  larger  crevasses. 
But  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  it  was  pressed 
upon  us  by  the  guides  rather  with  a  view  to 
increased  wages  than  to  the  actual  exigencies 
of  the  case.  Our  glacier  had  a  fine  eastern  aspect, 
and  consequently,  as  the  morning  sun  struck 
upon  it,  we  sank  deeper  and  deeper,  and  toiled 
more    wearily    up    its    apparently    interminable 


178       The  Playground  of  Europe 

slopes.  The  ladder  made  a  deep  trace  along  the 
snow,  we  floundered  wearily  on,  and  the  Viescher- 
horn  seemed  to  rise  higher  and  higher  with  a 
monotonous  but  singularly  steady  motion.  At 
last  we  struck  into  the  path  of  an  avalanche, 
which  had  come  down  not  long  before,  and  had 
effectually  bridged  some  yawning  crevasses.  This 
helped  us  well,  and  at  last,  after  about  five  hours 
of  toil,  we  found  ourselves  on  the  little  level  I 
have  mentioned.  We  struck  across  this,  and 
circumventing  a  bergschrund  by  means  of  the 
ladder — the  one  time  in  the  day  when  its  absence 
would  really  have  been  inconvenient — we  found 
ourselves,  at  10.30,  on  a  kind  of  snowy  rib  de- 
scending directly  from  the  rounded  dome  which 
forms  the  southern  hump  of  the  Viescherhorn. 

Up  to  this  point  the  work  had  been  simply  a 
stiff  pull  against  the  collar,  with  no  excitement, 
no  variety,  and  very  little  pleasure.  It  was 
simply  plodding  up  a  very  hot  long,  staircase, 
knee-deep  in  snow.  From  this  point  the  labour 
was  so  far  changed  that  we  frequently  had  ice 
under  our  feet  instead  of  snow;  the  guides  had 
the  additional  amusement  of  cutting  a  good 
many  steps,  and  there  was  a  small  amount  of 
pleasurable  excitement  from  the  fact  that  there 
was  a  bare  possibility  of  our  coming  down  with 
a  run.     The  surface  of  the    ice   was    covered    by 


The  Viescher-Joch  179 

snow  in  that  peculiar  state  in  which  it  is  some- 
times found  in  these  high  regions.  It  consisted 
of  a  mass  of  granular  lumps,  like  loose  piles 
of  hailstones.  These  poured  into  every  footstep 
as  it  was  cut,  as  so  much  sand  might  have  done, 
and  had  to  be  cleared  out  by  hand  and  foot  before 
we  could  safely  trust  our  weight  to  them.  As 
it  was,  the  rope  once  or  twice  tightened  un- 
pleasantly, and  my  next  neighbour  informed 
me  that  he  was  resting  upon  nothing  in  particular, 
and  advised  me  to  stand  steady.  I  presume, 
too,  that  it  is  to  this  point  of  our  journey  that 
I  am  to  refer  an  incident  which  Morgan  has 
since  related  in  thrilling  terms,  but  which  has 
mysteriously  escaped  my  memory.  I  fear  it 
was  part  of  that  queer  incrustation  of  legend 
which  gathers  so  rapidly  round  genuine  historical 
narrative.  He  says  that  we  were  exhausted  with 
our  labour,  parched  with  the  reflected  heat  of 
the  sun,  and  toiling  knee-deep  in  snow  up  the 
steepest  part  of  the  slope.  Guides  and  travellers 
were  alike  faint — frequently  pausing  for  breath, 
and  at  times  half  inclined  to  give  up  their  toil- 
some enterprise.  A  halt  took  place — we  were 
undecided  whether  to  advance  or  retire — the 
critical  moment  was  come.  Suddenly  Morgan 
raised  his  voice,  and  dashed  into  one  of  the 
inspiring  songs  of  his  native  land.     As  the  notes 


180       The  Playground  of  Europe 

struck  our  ears,  fresh  vigour  seemed  to  come 
into  our  muscles.  With  a  unanimous  cry  of 
"Forwards!"  we  rushed  on,  and  in  a  fit  of  en- 
thusiasm gained  the  top  of  the  pass.  I  am  content 
with  stating  as  a  fact  that,  somehow  or  other,  we 
toiled  up  the  dreary  slopes,  and  at  last  found 
ourselves  at  the  point  where  the  snow-rib  loses 
itself  in  the  rounded  knob  of  the  Viescherhorn. 

Just  at  this  moment  a  cloud,  which  had  been 
gathering  along  the  ridge,  became  overcharged. 
A  bright  flash  of  lightning  seemed  to  singe  our 
beards,  whilst  a  simultaneous  roar  of  thunder 
crackled  along  the  valley.  A  violent  hailstorm 
rattled  down,  blinding  and  bewildering  us.  It 
was  impossible  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  our  route. 
We  scooped  some  big  holes  in  the  snow  with 
our  axes,  and  cowered  down  in  them  to  get 
some  shelter.  My  hands  were  in  that  miserable 
condition  when  the  more  vehemently  I  nibbed 
them,  the  wetter  and  colder  and  more  numbed 
they  seemed  to  grow.  The  hail  got  in  at  the 
back  of  my  neck;  the  cold  wind  froze  my  nose; 
the  snow  got  into  my  boots  and  up  my  trousers, 
and  filled  my  pockets.  We  helplessly  waited 
for  a  change;  and  I  have  reason  to  suppose 
that  my  intellects  were  more  than  usually  ob- 
scured. Certainly  Mr.  Ball  has  been  compelled 
to  state,  in  his  admirable  Guide,  that  he  cannot 


The  Vicscher-Joch  181 

understand  my  description  of  the  geography ; 
and  he  charitably  attributes  my  perplexity  to 
the  storm  which  here  assailed  us.  I  must  admit 
that  I  do  not  quite  understand  the  description 
myself;  and  now  that  eight  years  have  elapsed 
since  I  sawT  the  scene  of  our  adventure,  the  details 
have  certainly  not  become  clearer.  The  only 
comfort  is  that,  as  nobody  has  been  foolish 
enough  to  follow  our  steps,  no  great  harm  can 
have  been  done.  Storm-beaten,  stupefied,  and 
sulky,  we  crouched  in  the  snow-drift  till  the 
storm  lulled,  and  we  jumped  up  to  look  round 
us.  We  might  curve  towards  our  left,  or  in  a 
southerly  direction,  round  the  great  knob  of 
the  Viescherhorn,  so  as  to  get  on  to  the  col. 
This  would,  as  we  saw  afterwards,  have  been 
the  right  way.  It  involved,  however,  some 
more  step-cutting.  We  therefore  went  round  in 
the  other  direction,  and  at  2  p.m.  got  upon  the 
saddle  between  the  two  points  of  the  Viescher- 
horn. From  this  point  it  was  obvious  that  we 
could  descend  upon  the  upper  level  of  the  Viescher 
glacier.  Accordingly,  without  further  investi- 
gation, we  crept  slowly  down  a  steep  but  short 
slope  of  snow  and  rock  to  a  point  where  we  could 
easily  surmount  a  threatening  bergschrund,  let 
ourselves  down  over  it,  and  found  ourselves  on 
the  upper  level  of  the  Viescher  glacier.     A  tedious 


1 82        The  Playground  of  Europe 

but  not  difficult  series  of  manoeuvres  placed  us 
at  the  foot  of  the  crevasses  by  which  the  upper 
part  of  the  glacier  is  intersected,  at  about  three 
o'clock.  Our  detour  over  the  saddle  of  the 
Viescherhorn  had  cost  us  a  considerable  amount 
of  unnecessary  trouble.  Our  difficulties  were, 
however,  now  all  over.  We  had  made  a  pass 
which,  of  all  the  passes  I  know,  is  certainly  one 
of  the  most  wearisome.  A  very  long  monotonous 
pull  up  a  very  steep  slope  of  snow,  with  only  the 
variation  of  sometimes  having  to  cut  steps  and 
sometimes  not,  is  apt  to  be  stupid.  The  views 
were  of  course  grand,  and  the  black  rocks  of  the 
Schreckhorn  looked  down  upon  us  with  a  majestic 
assertion  of  their  dignity.  I  cannot,  however, 
describe  the  scenery  of  the  Vieschergrat  Pass 
as  especially  interesting.  Perhaps  I  am  biassed 
by  our  subsequent  career. 

We  were  now  on  known  ground.  Nothing  but 
a  level  stretch  of  glacier  intervened  between  us 
and  the  ordinary  route  to  the  Finsteraarhorn 
or  Oberaar-Joch.  The  ^Eggischhorn  inn  began 
to  paint  itself  distinctly  to  our  imaginations. 
But  I  could  not  help  remembering  that  we  were 
hardly  likely  to  reach  the  ^Eggischhorn  before 
dark;  and  there  are  few  Alpine  travellers  in 
whose  minds  darkness  on  the  /Eggischhorn  is 
not   associated    with   weariness   and    vexation   of 


The  Viescher-Joch  183 

spirit.  I  therefore  strongly  objected  to  any 
unnecessary  halts,  and  after  taking  a  standing 
meal  and  contemptuously  abandoning  our  ladder 
to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  glacier,  we  started 
at  a  rapid  pace  for  our  much-desired  haven. 
We  left  the  Grunhornlticke  on  our  right,  struck 
into  the  Oberaar-Joch  route,  passed  the  wilderness 
of  boulders  and  mossy  slopes,  where  a  few 
wretched  sheep  pick  up  a  mysterious  existence 
above  the  Viescher  glacier,  descended  the  well- 
known  waterfall,  and  after  a  rapid  march  found 
ourselves  at  7.30  at  the  point  where  the  stream 
from  the  Marjelen  See  descends  beneath  the 
ice  close  to  a  few  isolated  huts.  We  were  all 
rather  tired.  We  were  disposed  to  look  upon 
our  day's  work  as  done,  and  we  hardly  relished 
another  climb.  Still  we  were  afraid  to  take  the 
lower  path  to  the  ^Eggischhorn,  and  preferred 
ascending  the  stream  to  the  Marjelen  Alp,  hoping 
to  find  natives  there  if  it  should  be  too  dark  to 
succeed  in  seeing  the  path  to  the  inn.  We  climbed 
wearily  and  slowly  upwards,  halting  to  take 
an  occasional  pull  at  the  stream  and  to  imbibe 
certain  remnants  of  brandy.  Gradually  it  be- 
came dark.  We  were  guided  chiefly  by  the 
sound  of  the  rushing  water  on  our  left.  Every 
form  of  mountain  and  rock  had  become  indistinct 
in  the  twilight,  and   then  been  1  (lotted  out  in  a 


184        The  Playground  of  Europe 

drizzling  mist.  The  stream  seemed  to  be  falling 
from  an  indefinite  height  out  of  absolute  darkness, 
and  the  path  refused  obstinately  to  bend  over 
into  the  little  plain  by  the  lake.  We  might  be 
climbing  right  up  to  the  top  of  the  Grat,  when 
at  length  we  reached  a  small  hummock  of  rock, 
on  which  was  planted  something  like  a  wooden 
cross.  We  halted  undecidedly  and  looked  round. 
Nothing  but  a  mixture  of  mist  and  night  was 
to  be  seen.  Some  one  raised  a  despairing  jodel 
on  the  chance  that  we  were  near  the  chalets. 
No  answer.  Another  louder  yell,  in  which  we 
all  joined;  silence  again,  and  then,  to  our  intense 
delight,  something  like  a  faint  reply.  A  general 
yell  now  produced  a  singular  phenomenon.  A 
faint  spark  appeared  at  an  indefinite  distance, 
indistinctly  glistening  through  the  drizzle.  The 
spark  grew  larger,  began  to  move,  and  presently 
came  rushing  in  a  straight  line  towards  us.  On 
approaching,  a  boy  was  discovered  attached  to 
one  end  of  a  flaming  piece  of  pine  wood.  He 
had  come  on  our  cries  from  the  Marjelen  Alp, 
and  guided  us  back  to  it  at  9  o'clock,  a  distance 
of  two  or  three  hundred  yards.  This  piece  of 
luck  raised  our  spirits.  We  soon  became  valiant 
over  warm  milk  and  bread,  and  having  thus 
unexpectedly  changed  our  prospect  of  lodging  in 
damp    rhododendron    beds    for   the   certainty    of 


The  Viescher-Joch  185 

dry  straw  under  a  roof,  began  to  think  whether 
better  things  might  not  be  done.  Should  we 
try  to  reach  the  /Eggischhorn  ?  The  guides 
unanimously  pooh-poohed  the  idea.  Liveing, 
who  had  been  rather  unwell  a  day  or  two  before, 
signified  his  opinion  by  taking  off  his  boots  and 
lying  composedly  down  on  the  regulation  mixture 
of  hay  and  fleas.  I  was  for  giving  in  to  the 
majority;  but  the  strongest  and  most  obstinate 
member  of  the  party  showed  at  once  his  courage 
and  the  uncompromising  vigour  of  his  appetite 
by  insisting  upon  making  a  dash  for  supper  at 
the  ^Eggischhorn.  A  little  diplomacy  was  there- 
fore used.  Certain  hints  at  five  francs  produced 
an  obvious  willingness  on  the  part  of  the  small 
Will-o'-the-wisp  to  go  in  any  direction  we  might 
please  to  mention.  The  guides  grumbled  em- 
phatically. A  variety  of  judicious  appeals  to 
their  skill,  and  our  extreme  confidence  in  it, 
at  last  induced  them  to  take  a  more  favourable 
view  of  the  case.  The  construction  of  a  lantern 
out  of  an  empty  bottle  and  a  candle  removed 
one  objection  which  had  been  strongly  urged. 
The  right  plan,  I  may  remark,  is  to  strike  out 
the  bottom  of  the  bottle  and  to  insert  the  candle 
through  the  neck  with  the  wick  foremost.  The 
glass  of  the  bottle  then  forms  a  tolerably  satis- 
factory   screen.      As    an    additional    and    (as    it 


1 86        The  Playground  of  Europe 

proved)  more  effective  source  of  light,  the  boy 
constructed  a  torch  by  splitting  one  end  of  a 
large  piece  of  wood  with  an  axe,  and  inserting 
splinters  of  wood  into  the  splits.  These  when 
lighted  made  a  grand  blaze,  and  we  all  started 
at  10  p.m.  in  high  spirits  for  the  inn.  Liveing, 
animated  by  our  example,  sprang  up  and  ac- 
companied us. 

For  a  time  all  went  right  enough.  The  torch 
led  the  van,  and  the  lantern  brought  up  the 
rear.  We  climbed  the  crest  of  the  hill  leading 
towards  the  ^Eggischhorn  rapidly  and  successfully. 
"We  shall  have  supper  before  n  o'clock,"  said 
Hardy.  Presently  the  torch  went  out.  It  was 
soon  relighted,  and  we  were  off  again.  Soon, 
however,  our  progress,  which  had  been  straight 
forward,  seemed  to  me  to  be  rather  wandering. 
"We  have  just  missed  the  path,"  the  boy  ex- 
plained, "but  we  shall  have  it  again  directly." 
It  soon  became  rather  doubtful,  however,  whether 
we  were  not  looking  for  it  in  the  wrong  direction. 
Shortly  afterwards  a  discussion  arose  whether 
the  narrow  gully  which  we  were  descending 
was  not  the  very  one  we  had  come  up  ten  minutes 
before.  During  the  discussion  the  torch  went 
out.  In  attempting  to  relight  it  we  put  the 
candle  out.  Then  all  the  matches  were  wet 
through,  and   it  was  not  till  we  had  hunted  to 


The  Viescher-Joch  187 

the  bottom  of  some  one's  knapsack  that  we 
found  any  that  would  work.  At  last  we  suc- 
ceeded; and,  to  save  trouble,  I  may  say  that 
this  process  of  extinction  of  all  our  lights,  fol- 
lowed by  their  laborious  rekindling,  went  on  at 
continually  shorter  intervals  till  we  seemed  to 
be  sitting  down  longer  than  we  were  walking. 
Meanwhile  the  search  for  the  missing  path  seemed 
every  moment  more  hopeless.  After  scrambling 
up  and  down,  and  round  and  round  for  a  long 
time,  we  found  ourselves  in  a  disconsolate  and 
bewildered  state  of  mind,  standing  on  a  damp 
ledge  of  grass  at  the  foot  of  a  big  rock  staring 
vacantly  into  blank  darkness.  Whether  to  go 
up  or  down,  or  right  or  left,  we  knew  no  more 
than  if  we  had  been  suddenly  dropped  into  the 
middle  of  the  great  Sahara.  There  was  only 
one  thing  for  it.  We  took  our  knapsacks  and 
put  on  our  remaining  articles  of  dress,  e.g.,  two 
pairs  of  socks,  an  extra  pair  of  trousers,  a  flannel 
shirt,  a  waistcoat,  and  a  dozen  paper  shirt-collars, 
and  crouched  down  under  the  rock,  hoping  that 
the  wind  would  keep  in  the  right  quarter,  that 
the  puddle  in  which  we  were  sitting  would  be 
speedily  absorbed,  and  that  the  sun  would  get 
up  as  early  as  possible.  The  guides  made  some 
very  sarcastic  remarks,  in  very  broad  patois,  about 
gentlemen    who    would  n't    take    advice,    and    I 


1 88       The  Playground  of  Europe 

refrained  from  allusions  to  supper.  The  boy 
who  had  attempted  to  guide  us  had  meanwhile 
vanished  mysteriously  into  the  depths  of  the 
night.  At  this  instant,  just  as  I  had  drawn  my 
second  pair  of  trousers  over  my  second  flannel 
shirt,  he  suddenly  emerged  from  the  dark,  ex- 
claiming, "I've  found  a  man!"  It  struck  me 
as  a  bewildering  and  improbable  circumstance 
that  any  other  human  being  should  be  fool 
enough  to  be  within  reach  of  us;  and  I  did  not 
at  first  appreciate  the  fact  that  he  was  referring 
to  a  stone  man  or  cairn,  marking  the  route  to 
the  /Eggischhorn.  It  was  just  twelve  as  he 
made  the  announcement,  and  in  a  few  seconds 
the  whole  party  was  under  way  again,  not  even 
halting  to  take  off  the  extra  apparel.  A  dreary 
and  a  dismal  walk  we  had.  In  front  was  the  boy 
with  the  torch.  At  short  intervals  halts  had  to 
be  called,  to  coax  the  said  torch  by  various 
means  into  renewed  activity.  In  the  intervals 
between  these  halts,  I,  being  about  fifth  in  the 
line,  was  only  conscious  of  the  torch  as  a  kind 
of  halo  spreading  out  a  very  short  way  and 
very  mistily  on  either  side  of  certain  black  bodies, 
which  oscillated  strangely  between  me  and  it. 
From  these  black  masses  occasionally  proceeded 
sounds  expressive  of  revolutionary  sentiments 
about  hills  and  stones  in  general,  and  the  yEggisch- 


The  Viescher-Joch  189 

horn  in  particular.  My  radius  of  vision  included 
about  a  yard  of  hill,  inclining  at  a  very  steep 
angle  to  my  left,  scattered  with  mysterious 
objects,  which  generally  turned  out  to  be  deep 
holes  when  I  thought  they  were  stones,  and 
very  unsteady  and  sharp-edged  stones  when  I 
thought  they  were  puddles.  It  is  a  well-known 
fact  that  the  ^Eggischhorn  consists  of  innumer- 
able shoulders  so  arranged  that  you  suppose 
even*  successive  one  as  you  come  to  it  to  be 
the  last,  and  find  out  when  you  have  tinned 
it  that  it  is  only  an  insignificant  unit  in  the 
multitude.  I  have  often  been  made  practically 
aware  of  this  fact,  but  never  was  it  so  painfully 
impressed  upon  me  as  from  12  to  2.30  on  the 
morning  of  July  30,  1862.  Stumbling,  groaning, 
slipping,  and  pulling  up  short  over  stones,  pud- 
dles, slippery  grass,  and  every  variety  of  pitfall, 
including  cows,  we  pushed  wearily  on,  and  about 
2.30  became  conscious  that  we  were  in  a  thing 
that  called  itself  a  path.  A  few  minutes  at  a 
quicker  pace,  and  the  /Eggischhorn  inn  appeared. 
At  2.40  a.m.  a  wild  yell  from  four  weary,  hungry, 
and  thirsty  travellers  roused  AT.  Wcllig  to  a 
sense  of  his  duties,  and  by  3  o'clock  the  said 
travellers  were  asleep,  with  two  good  bottles 
of  champagne  inside  them. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  COL  DES  HIRONDELLES 

A  queer  sensation  which  sometimes  comes 
over  me  on  the  sight  of  some  familiar  Alpine 
view  may  best  be  illustrated  by  a  literary  parallel. 
In  reading  some  genuine  old  English  dramatist, 
I  have  been  tempted  to  exclaim,  What  does 
this  fellow  mean  by  imitating  Lamb's  John 
Woodvill,  or  Taylor's  Philip  Van  Artevelde? 
Why  does  n't  he  see  the  absurdity  of  mimicking 
a  man  who  was  his  junior  by  two  centuries? 
His  local  colouring  is  the  same,  if  it  is  not  quite 
so  obtrusive,  as  that  of  our  modern  Elizabethans. 
In  the  same  way  the  view  from  the  Wengern 
Alp,  or  the  Gornergrat,  or  the  Montanvert  strikes 
me  as  little  better  than  a  plagiarism.  Have 
we  not  seen  the  very  same  design  used  over  and 
over  again  for  the  lids  of  carved  boxes,  and 
worked  to  death  by  the  artists  of  those  pictures 
with  blue  glaciers,  and  white  peaks,  and  melo- 
dramatic chamois  which  stare  at  us  from  every 
shop-window  in  Interlaken  or  Chamouni?  Why 
should   the  eternal  Alps  enter  into  rivalry  with 

190 


The  Col  des  Hirondelles  191 

such  puerile  performances?  In  no  place  have  I 
been  more  frequently  seduced  into  this  whimsical 
inversion  of  logic  than  at  the  Montanvert.  The 
Montanvert,  in  fact,  is,  with  the  possible  exception 
of  the  Wengem  Alp,  the  most  cockney -rid  den 
of  all  the  well-known  points  of  view.  Within 
a  few  hundred  yards  of  the  inn  lies  a  monument 
which  strikingly  illustrates  this  truth,  and  which, 
I  fear,  hardly  receives  from  members  of  the  Alpine 
Club  the  attention  which  it  deserves.  On  the 
old  moraine,  just  above  the  place  where  the 
solemn  echoes  of  the  mountains  are  waked  for 
the  sum  of  ten  centimes,  lies  an  ancient  gre}* 
stone,  on  which  are  carved  the  names  of  Pocock 
and  Windham.  Some  Old  Mortality  of  the  dis- 
trict appears  to  have  preserved  this  inscription 
which  marks  the  bivouac  of  the  first  British 
tourists  130  years  ago.  Having  surmounted 
the  peril  of  the  ascent  to  Chamouni,  these  prim- 
itive adventurers,  whose  memory  should  surely 
be  dear  to  us,  succeeded  in  scaling  the  Montanvert, 
and  doubtless  felt  that  they  had  well  earned 
their  night's  rest  beneath  the  now  historical 
block.  Perhaps  the  Alpine  Club  might  do  worse, 
in  case  of  necessity,  than  apply  a  few  francs 
towards  the  preservation  of  this  memorial  of 
their  ancestors'  heroism.  Another  inscription 
commemorative     of     tourist     enthusiasm     never 


192        The  Playground  of  Europe 

aroused  my  conscious  attention,  often  as  my 
eyes  must  have  rested  upon  it,  until  this  summer. 
All  who  have  made  expeditions  from  the  Montan- 
vert  remember  that  queer  little  octagonal  edi- 
fice opposite  the  door  of  the  inn,  which  seems 
to  be  a  compromise  between  a  stable,  a  kitchen, 
and  a  sleeping-room  for  the  guides.  Here,  I 
have  sometimes  fancied,  were  held  the  private 
sittings  of  the  Everlasting  Club  commemorated 
in  the  Spectator.  I  have  never,  at  least,  looked 
in  at  any  hour  of  day  or  night  without  seeing 
a  guide  seated  by  the  fire — eating,  drinking, 
or  smoking  with  stolid  persistency,  and  generally 
conspicuous  for  that  air  of  extreme  personal 
comfort  which  is  only  produced  by  the  conscious- 
ness that  you  are  keeping  somebody  waiting. 
The  impatience  which  is  naturally  produced  in 
the  mind  of  an  external  observer  had,  I  presume, 
hitherto  prevented  me  from  noticing  that  above 
the  door  are  engraved  the  words,  A  la  Nature. 
In  fact,  the  building  was  erected  by  a  prefect  of 
some  half-century  ago,  who  indulged  in  the 
good  old-fashioned  sentimentalism  of  the  Rous- 
seau school,  and  devised  this  rather  pagan  edifice 
for  the  benefit  of  his  fellowT-creatures.  Then  it 
was  probably  an  almost  solitary  example  of  a 
building  intended  for  the  accommodation  of 
Alpine  sightseers.     Since  that  day,  two  or  three 


The  Col  des  Hirondelles  193 

generations  of  tourists  must  have  gazed  from 
its  doors  up  the  ice-stream  of  the  Mer  de  Glace, 
and  admired  the  great  block  of  the  Geant  and 
the  Jorasses  framed  so  symmetrically  between 
the  gigantic  portals  of  the  Charmoz  and  the 
Verte.  The  view  has  indeed  become  so  familiar 
that  almost  every  Alpine  traveller,  and  many 
travellers  who  have  never  been  to  the  Alps, 
could  draw  a  recognisable  outline  of  its  main 
features  with  their  eyes  shut.  The  Alpine  Club, 
I  doubt  not,  is  as  familiar  with  its  details  as 
with  a  well-known  passage  beginning  "Dearly 
beloved  brethren";  and,  as  the  statement  that 
"the  Scripture  moveth  us  in  sundry  places" 
sometimes  reaches  their  ears  without  exciting 
a  very  vivid  emotion,  so  the  eye  glances  along 
the  well-known  ridges  without  setting  up  any 
conscious  train  of  reflection.  To  some  such 
cause,  at  least,  I  must  attribute  the  really  curious 
fact,  that  up  to  the  year  1873  nobody  had  yet 
attempted  one  of  the  most  conspicuous  passes 
in  the  whole  range  of  the  Alps.  The  grand  block 
of  the  Jorasses  is  abruptly  cut  away,  as  we  all 
know,  at  its  northern  end,  and  thence  to  the 
wild  labyrinth  of  ridges  which  culminates  in 
the  Aiguille  de  Lechaud  there  stretches  a  level 
saddle,  over  which,  as  is  obvious  to  the  meanest 
capacity,  there  must  lie  a  route  to  Courmayeur. 


194        The  Playground  of  Europe 

Indeed  it  would  be  the  natural  route  for  anybody 
intending  to  cross  the  Col  du  Geant  by  the  light 
of  nature.  If  you  would  make  a  bee-line  from 
the  Montanvert  to  the  nearest  points  of  the 
Italian  valleys,  your  route  would  take  you  straight 
across  this  col,  which  is  as  obtrusive  as  the  Theo- 
dule  from  Zermatt,  or  the  Jungfrau-Joch  from 
the  Wengern  Alp.  The  apparent  steepness  of 
the  final  barrier  indeed  was  forbidding;  but 
in  an  ascent  of  the  Mt.  Mallet,  which  I  had  made 
a  couple  of  years  previously,  we  had  gone  near 
enough  to  see  that  this  appearance,  as  in  so 
many  other  cases,  promised  to  be  illusory.  M. 
Loppe  was  especially  impressed  by  the  view, 
and  had  frequently  suggested  to  me  the  propriety 
of  an  assault  when  arranging  the  plans  of  coming 
campaigns.  The  discussion  assumed  fresh  pro- 
minence during  certain  tobacco  parliaments  held 
in  the  beginning  of  July  last  in  front  of  Couttct's 
inn  at  Chamouni.  It  took  a  practical  turn  on 
the  arrival  of  Messrs.  T.  S.  Kennedy  and  J.  G. 
Marshall,  who  contemplated  the  same  expedition, 
and  brought  two  excellent  guides,  Johann  Fischer 
of  Meiringen,  and  Ulrich  Aimer,  son  of  the  hero 
of  Grindelwald.  Kennedy  and  Marshall  had 
already  acquired  useful  information  by  examining 
the  col  from  the  other  side,  and  were  eager  to 
add    this    to    their    previous    conquests.      Loppe 


The  Col  des  Hirondelles  395 

was  naturally  keen  about  the  last  pass  of  really 
first-rate  excellence  in  the  district  which  may 
fairly  be  called  his  own.  For  my  part,  I  have 
long  abandoned  difficult  and  dangerous  expe- 
ditions. Moreover,  I  was  at  Chamouni  in  the 
interesting  character  of  invalid.  I  was  suffering 
from  a  state  of  mind  and  body  which  wives  and 
mothers  generally  attribute  to  overwork,  and 
which  one's  masculine  friends  consider  as  a 
pronounced  attack  of  idleness.  Whatever  the 
origin  of  my  symptoms,  I  took  a  course  which 
I  can  strongly  commend  to  all  my  readers.  I 
consulted  a  distinguished  physician  who  to  his 
great  medical  skill  adds  the  special  merit  of 
being  a  member  of  the  Alpine  Club.  He  pre- 
scribed—less to  my  surprise  than  to  my  satis- 
faction— Alpine  air  and  indolence.  The  last 
phrase  I  took  to  include  moderate  walking 
exercise,  and,  though  abjuring  anything  bordering 
upon  the  performance  of  athletic  feats,  I  felt 
myself  at  liberty  to  accompany  my  friends  in 
the  humble  character  of  historiographer,  with 
liberty  to  turn  back  if  the  danger  or  the  fatigue 
should  prove  excessive. 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  once  more  I  was 
sleeping  at  the  Montanvert,  on  the  night  of 
Sunday,  July  13th.  The  weather  was  so  question- 
able  that   I  had   delayed   my  departure   till  the 


196        The  Playground  of  Europe 

last  possible  moment.  Throughout  the  early 
summer  we  had  a  series  of  thunderstorms,  the 
temperature,  lowered  by  each  storm,  gradually 
becoming  almost  unbearably  hot,  till  we  were 
relieved  by  another  explosion.  On  this  occasion 
a  storm  had  just  passed,  but  as  Loppe  and  I 
climbed  the  well-known  Montanvert  path  in  the 
late  evening,  the  heavy  pine  branches  were  still 
dripping  with  moisture,  and  an  occasional  thunder- 
growl  muttered  amongst  the  distant  ranges.  I 
had  therefore  turned  in  with  some  doubts  as  to 
the  next  day's  weather.  A  happy  faculty  of 
sleeping  soon  produced  utter  oblivion,  though 
my  couch  was  little  softer  than  Pocock  and 
Windham's  stone.  What  passed  for  a  mattress 
seemed  rather  to  be  a  cylindrical  bolster  of  ab- 
normal hardness,  and  reminded  me  of  that  dummy 
which  Jack  the  Giant-killer  placed  in  his  bed 
in  one  of  his  adventures;  as  it  would  have  been 
only  too  well  calculated  to  withstand  the  most 
vicious  blows  of  an  infuriated  Blunderbore.  I 
see  that  I  am  inevitably  falling  into  the  old 
groove.  I  am  treating  my  readers  to  the  thousand 
and  first  description  of  the  discomforts  of  bad 
beds.  My  only  excuse  is,  that  the  grievance  is 
as  lasting  as  the  grumbling.  The  Montanvert 
inn  is  a  disgrace  to  the  district.  The  commune 
of  Chamouni  receives,  I  am  told,  a  rent  of  some 


The  Col  des  Hirondelles  197 

500/.  a  year  for  this  dirty,  tumbledown,  old 
hovel,  which  has  received  no  improvement  or 
addition  since  it  was  first  erected.  The  number 
of  visitors  must  have  multiplied  tenfold,  but 
the  accommodation  is  strictly  stationary,  and 
the  prices  steadily  advancing.  This  phenomenon 
is  quite  in  accordance  with  the  laws  of  political 
economy.  Monopoly,  whether  of  railways  or  inn- 
keepers, is  fatal  to  the  comforts  of  travellers.  To 
complain  is  probably  mere  waste  of  ink ;  and  yet 
one  would  fain  hope  that  the  good  people  of  Cha- 
mouni  may  be  impressed  in  the  course  of  a  gen- 
eration or  two  with  the  conviction  that  better 
accommodation  on  so  celebrated  a  point  of  view 
would  provide  an  excellent  investment  for  some 
of  their  spare  capital.  In  Switzerland  the  Mon- 
tanvert  would  have  been  rebuilt  and  enlarged 
a  dozen  times  over;  and  the  example  of  their 
enterprising  neighbours  should  be  set  before 
these  good  stolid  Chamouniards  as  vigorously 
as  possible.  Meanwhile,  in  spite  of  dirt,  dis- 
comfort, a  squalid  bedroom,  and  a  close  atmos- 
phere, I  was  sleeping  peacefully  on  the  early 
morning  of  the  14th,  lapped  in  some  dim  con- 
sciousness that  I  had  still  an  hour  and  a  half 
before  the  inevitable  hour  of  starting,  when  a 
stentorian  voice  resounded  through  the  house — 
"Ohe!  la-bas!  Aufstehen!  Garcon!  get  up!"  were 


198        The  Playground  of  Europe 

some  of  the  fragmentary  utterances  which  rang 
like  a  trumpet  through  my  dreams;  and  led 
me  to  realise  the  fact  that  my  young  friend  Mar- 
shall, boiling  over  with  the  impetuosity  of  youth, 
was  resolved  to  avoid  any  danger  of  oversleeping 
by  premature  vociferation.  Some  wretched  tour- 
ists, it  was  true,  were  beginning  to  fortify  them- 
selves by  a  few  hours'  repose  for  the  toils  of 
an  expedition  to  the  Jardin.  They  must  take 
the  consequences  of  venturing  into  the  haunts 
of  the  enthusiastic  climbers,  and  speedily  they 
had  a  lively  accompaniment  to  the  vocal  music 
played  on  the  planks  by  a  pair  of  sturdy  hob- 
nailed boots.  Lulled  by  this  music,  I  endeavoured 
to  compose  myself  once  more  to  rest  by  carefully 
extending  myself  along  that  granite  column 
which  played  the  part  of  mattress.  Alas!  my 
efforts  were  in  vain.  The  voice  became  more 
emphatic. 

Still  it  cried  "Sleep  no  more!"  to  all  the  house; 
Marshall  hath  murdered  sleep ;  and  therefore  Loppe" 
Shall  sleep  no  more ;  Stephen  shall  sleep  no  more. 

Nay,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  a  personal  application 
was  given  to  some  of  the  more  energetic  remon- 
strances; and,  finally,  I  found  myself  dozing 
over  the  usual  fragments  of  dry  bread  and  tepid 
coffee,  and  endeavouring,  according  to  a  principle 


The  Col  des  Hirondelles  199 

which  I  observe  with  uncle viating  punctuality, 
to  shirk  all  responsibility  in  the  matter  of  ordering 
provisions  or  otherwise  arranging  for  a  start. 
Still  drowsy  and  dull,  I  turned  out  about  three 
o'clock  into  the  drowsy  night.  The  prospect 
was  equivocal.  Torn  fragments  of  vapour  floated 
aimlessly  above  the  valleys  and  clustered  in 
long  streamers  upon  the  mountain  sides.  The 
pyramid  of  the  Aiguille  Verte  was  nearly  hidden ; 
on  the  opposite  side,  the  Aiguille  de  Charmoz 
appeared,  as  it  were,  in  a  ragged  dressing- 
gown,  resembling  the  costume  of  Mr.  Pickwick's 
companions  in  the  Fleet  Prison.  A  maud- 
lin kind  of  monster  it  seemed,  apparently  reel- 
ing homewards  from  some  debauch  in  a  general 
state  of  intellectual  haziness.  One  huge  finger 
— well  known  to  all  buyers  of  photographs  and 
coloured  drawings  for  the  last  fifty  years — 
was  held  up,  pointing,  with  a  muddled  signifi- 
cance, towards  the  heavens.  Doubtless  some 
sort  of  meaning  might  lurk  in  that  intoxicated 
gesture;  but  I  am  no  diviner  of  omens.  Whether 
the  old  Charmoz  intended  an  encouragement 
or  a  warning  was  to  me  an  impenetrable  secret. 
Perhaps,  too,  my  language  is  rather  profane. 
The  mountain,  gleaming  in  the  dim  moonlight 
through  the  veil  of  mist,  and  revealing  that 
strange  pinnacle  of  rock  which,   as   I   have  seen 


200       The  Playground  of  Europe 

it  from  a  nearer  point,  is  one  of  the  most  daring 
of  mountain  spires,  should  have  excited  awe 
rather  than  unseemly  familiarity.  I  do  not 
profess,  however,  to  have  my  emotions  at  com- 
mand ;  solemn  objects  sometimes  fail  to  create 
in  me  that  "great  disposition  to  cry"  which  is 
the  becoming  mode  of  testifying  sensibility  to 
natural  beauty.  Moreover,  I  have  a  spite  against 
the  Charmoz.  I  tried  to  climb  him  a  few  weeks 
afterwards,  and  his  scarped  cliffs  foiled  our 
best  efforts;  and,  therefore,  I  take  the  liberty, 
not  unprecedented  under  such  circumstances, 
of  attacking  the  character  of  a  mountain  which 
has  shown  itself  too  hard  for  me.  We  had  soon 
turned  our  backs  on  the  Charmoz,  and,  as  we 
advanced,  two  facts  became  evident:  the  sunrise 
was  healthy,  giving  promise  at  least  of  a  tolerable 
clay ;  and  the  pace  speedily  threatened  to  be 
tremendous.  Our  party  was  of  heterogeneous 
composition.  Experience  was  represented  by 
the  elder  travellers  and  youthful  precipitance 
by  our  friend  Marshall.  Youth  accordingly 
set  out,  in  spite  of  sage  warnings,  at  a  brisk  rate, 
and  was  soon  leaping  crevasses  in  a  playful 
spirit  far  ahead  of  creeping  age.  Had  we  been 
united  we  might  have  succeeded  in  suppressing 
this  undignified  impetuosity;  but  the  guides,  as 
well   as   their  employers,    were   divided.      Loppe 


The  Col  des  Hirondelles  201 

and  I  had  engaged  Henri  Devouassoud,  a  younger 
brother  of  the  well-known  Francois.  Now, 
Henri — and  I  am  glad  to  make  the  remark  in 
view  of  some  recent  criticisms  upon  Chamouni 
guides — is  a  strong,  willing,  and  pleasant  fellow, 
though  not,  as  I  judge,  more  than  second-rate 
as  a  leader  of  a  party.  He  caught  the  contagion 
from  Marshall,  and  was  willing  to  show  his  Ober- 
land  companions  that  a  Chamouni  guide  could 
make  the  running.  Accordingly,  we  crossed 
the  glacier  at  a  pace  which  brought  us  to  the 
foot  of  the  final  bergschrund  in  little  over  three 
hours.  It  is,  I  am  aware,  contrary  to  all  rules 
of  Alpine  writing  to  reach  a  bergschrund  so 
early  in  the  narrative  of  the  expedition.  But 
I  have  a  sufficient  apology.  It  is  as  easy  to  get 
to  this  bergschrund  as  to  reach  the  Jardin — as 
easy  as  another  process  which  I  need  not  par- 
ticularly mention,  and  the  facility  of  which 
needs  no  demonstration  to  an  audience  of  travel- 
lers by  profession.  There  is  simply  a  gently 
sloping  snow-plain  to  cross,  where  the  few  crevas- 
ses could  be  turned  by  trifling  deviations  from 
our  route;  and  thus  our  only  mentionable  ad- 
venture was  the  inevitable  quarrel  with  the 
porter  from  the  Montanvert,  who  asked  more 
for  going  part  of  the  way  to  the  Jardin  from 
the  inn  than  he  would  have  received,  according 


202        The  Playground  of  Europe 

to  the  tariff,  for  going  the  whole  way  from  Cha- 
mouni  and  back.  Moreover,  I  am  not  going  to 
let  my  readers  off  too  easily.  For  here  I  must 
insert  a  brief  digression  whilst  we  are  eating 
our  breakfast  and  speculating  upon  the  best 
line  of  assault.  A  day  or  two  before,  we  had 
committed  the  usual  folly  of  an  exploring  ex- 
pedition. It  had  the  normal  fate  of  such  per- 
formances. We  had  climbed  to  nearly  our  present 
position  and  had  thence  watched  a  noble  bank 
of  boiling  cloud,  which  effectually  screened  from 
sight  every  detail  of  our  proposed  route.  One 
incident,  however,  deserves  fuller  commemoration. 
As  we  began  to  climb  the  snow-slopes  we  ob- 
served at  a  little  distance  ahead  certain  mys- 
terious objects  arranged  with  curious  symmetry 
in  a  circle  upon  the  glacier.  Some  twenty  black 
spots  lay  absolutely  motionless  before  us;  and 
as  we  approached  we  became  aware  of  their 
nature  and  not,  as  I  will  venture  to  add,  without 
a  certain  feeling  of  sadness.  In  fact,  we  had 
before  us  a  proof  of  the  terrible  power  with 
which  tempests  sometimes  rage  in  these  upper 
regions.  The  twenty  objects  were  corpses — 
not  human  corpses,  which,  indeed,  would  in 
some  sense  have  been  less  surprising.  As  a 
melancholy  accident  lias  lately  shown,  man  may 
easily  be  done  to  death  by  the  icy  winds  which 


The  Col  des  Hirondelles  203 

have  such  terrible  power  in  these  exposed  wastes 
of  snow.  But  the  poor  little  bodies  which  lay 
before  us  were  the  mortal  remains  of  swallows. 
How  it  came  to  pass  that  the  little  company  had 
been  struck  down  so  suddenly  as  their  position 
seemed  to  indicate  gave  matter  for  reflection. 
Ten  minutes'  flight  with  those  strong  winds 
would  have  brought  them  to  the  shelter  of  the 
Chamouni  forests,  or  have  taken  them  across 
the  mountain  wall  to  the  congenial  climate  of 
Italy.  Whether  the  birds  had  gathered  together 
for  warmth,  or  been  stupefied  so  suddenly  by 
the  blasts  as  to  be  slain  at  once  in  a  body,  there 
they  were,  united  in  death,  and  looking,  I  confess, 
strangely  pathetic  in  the  midst  of  the  snowy 
wilderness.  I  mention  it  here,  not  merely  because 
none  of  us  had  met  with  such  an  incident  before, 
but  also  for  another  purpose.  We  proposed 
at  the  time  to  give  to  our  pass  the  name  of  the 
Col  des  Hirondelles,  which  may  be  justified  by 
the  precedent  of  the  Adler-Joch  at  Zermatt. 
First  discoverers  have,  I  believe,  a  right  to 
christen  their  passes;  but,  unluckily  or  otherwise, 
it  is  one  of  those  rights  which  are  not  very  valuable, 
because  they  cannot  be  enforced.  If  future  travel- 
lers choose  to  call  the  pass  the  Col  des  Jorasses, 
or  the  Col  de  Lechaud,  we  cannot  exact  any 
penalty    from    them.      So    far,    however,    as    our 


204        The  Playground  of  Europe 

authority  is  recognised,  I  beg  to  state  that  we 
in  all  due  form  passed  a  resolution  declaring 
that  henceforth  the  col  which  I  am  about  to 
describe  should  be  known  to  all  whom  it  concerns 
by  the  sole  style  and  title  of  the  Col  des  Hiron- 
delles.  And  having  thus  done  my  duty  to  the 
swallows,  and  given  satisfaction,  as  I  hope,  to 
such  souls  as  Mr.  Darwin  and  the  Thirty-nine 
Articles  may  allow  them  to  possess,  I  will  return 
to  the  narrative  of  our  adventures. 

As  I  have  already  said,  a  precipitous  wall 
stretches  northward  from  the  foot  of  the  Jorasses. 
On  the  French  side  it  consists  chiefly  of  rock; 
on  the  Italian  it  is  covered  by  the  wild  Glacier 
de  Freboutzie,  As  we  approached  it  we  recog- 
nised various  routes  each  of  which  appeared  at 
times  to  be  easy,  and  then  again  put  on  an  ap- 
pearance of  inaccessibility  from  some  different 
point  of  view.  Close  to  the  Jorasses  there  de- 
scends a  broad  couloir  of  ice,  crowned  by  a  wall 
of  serac,  as  to  which  it  is  still  a  matter  of  con- 
troversy whether  it  ever  does  or  does  not  discharge 
avalanches.  I  cannot  decide  the  point,  not 
having  made  the  necessary  observations;  but 
I  may  briefly  say  that  any  one  who  likes  to  risk 
these  possibly  non-existent  avalanches  might 
probably  shorten  his  route  to  the  summit.  It 
would,  perhaps,  be  possible,  moreover,  to  reach 


NX; 


w>» 


The  Col  des  Hirondelles  205 

the  top  of  the  col  by  climbing  the  lower  rocks 
of  the  Jorasses,  and  so  keeping  entirely  to  the 
right,  or  south,  of  the  great  couloir.  To  the 
left,  or  north,  there  is  a  long  rocky  wall,  seamed 
by  deep  narrow  couloirs  of  much  smaller  dimen- 
sions, occasionally  varied  by  steep  snow-slopes, 
by  scarped  surfaces  of  rock,  and  by  huge  ribs 
which  descend  steeply  from  the  summit  and 
are  more  or  less  cut  off  at  their  lower  extremities. 
More  than  one  route  might,  perhaps,  be  discovered 
amongst  them.  Our  attention,  however,  was  fixed 
upon  the  ridge  which  bounded  the  great  couloir 
immediately  to  the  north,  and  upon  a  very  deep 
and  narrow  couloir,  which  again  lies  immediately 
to  the  north  of  the  ridge.  This  last  couloir  was 
filled  with  snow  at  the  time  of  our  passage,  and, 
as  seen  from  the  Montanvert,  appeared  to  us 
like  a  bright  white  thread.  The  snow,  however, 
frequently  disappears,  and  the  whole  wall  then 
seems  to  be  little  more  than  a  mass  of  rock.  To 
be  clear,  I  shall  call  this  narrow  couloir  the  chim- 
ney, and  I  may  proceed  to  describe  our  assault. 

The  chimney  opens  out  at  its  lower  end,  and 
is  lost  in  the  main  slope  above  the  bergschrund. 
At  6.45  we  attacked  this  natural  fosse  with  the 
usual  gymnastics.  They  involved  no  particular 
difficulty,  and  I  only  had  to  complain  of  a  decided 
propensity  of  the  rope  to  get  itself  entangled  in 


206         The  Playground  of  Europe 

my  hat.  The  said  hat,  having  shrunk,  was  easily 
knocked  off  my  head,  and  the  fact  that  I  was 
constantly  struggling  to  preserve  it  against  the 
skilful  assaults  of  the  rope  may  show  that  the 
line  of  ascent  was  tolerably  steep.  For  a  time, 
however,  the  climb  was  perfectly  easy.  Dig- 
ging our  feet  into  soft  but  tenacious  snowT,  we 
speedily  reached  the  chimney  and  found  it  in 
good  condition.  The  snow-bed  which  lined  it 
enabled  us  to  climb  hand  over  hand  without  a 
check  for  some  considerable  distance.  But  by 
degrees,  Fischer,  who  was  leading,  became  ner- 
vous. He  has  a  prejudice,  in  which  I  admit 
that  I  share,  against  stones  bigger  and  harder 
than  the  human  head,  and  subject  entirely  to 
the  force  of  gravitation.  Lopp6,  who  is  always 
loudly  proclaiming  his  own  extreme  prudence — 
it  is  his  pet  virtue,  and  the  only  one  upon  which 
he  prides  himself — is  a  sceptic  in  the  matter  of 
stones.  Whether  he  has  confidence  in  the  strength 
of  his  skull,  or  a  faith  in  his  capacity  for  being 
missed,  I  cannot  say.  However,  he  assured  us 
emphatically  that  stones  would  not  fall,  or  if 
they  did  fall,  would  not  hurt  us.  Deaf  to  these 
arguments — I  call  them  arguments  for  want  of 
a  better  word — Fischer  insisted  upon  leaving 
the  chimney  and  climbing  the  rib  between  our- 
selves and   the  great  couloir.     And  hence  arose 


The  Col  des  Hirondelles  207 

a  division  of  the  party,  and  a  certain  amount 
of  emulation,  though  no  want  of  cordiality. 
Whilst  Loppe  and  Devouassoud  as  representa- 
tives of  Chamouni  stuck  to  the  chimney  like 
men,  we  effected  a  flanking  movement  on  to  the 
rib.  Now,  as  all  climbers  know,  these  transverse 
performances  which,  if  I  may  say  it,  take  a 
mountain  across  the  grain,  are  apt  to  lead  to 
difficulties.  For  about  fifty  yards  we  had,  what 
seemed  to  me,  a  really  nasty  bit  of  climbing. 
The  rocks  were  powdered  with  a  layer  of  snow, 
sufficiently  deep  to  aggravate  seriously  the  dif- 
ficulties due  to  their  rottenness  and  irregularity. 
I  will  not  presume  to  say  that  the  consequence 
of  this  was  any  real  difficulty.  Objectively 
speaking  the  rocks  may  have  been  easy;  sub- 
jectively considered  I  heartily  condemned  them. 
A  different  word  has  been  used  in  some  trans- 
lations from  the  Greek.  At  any  rate,  I  was 
reduced  to  a  state  of  mind  of  which  many  travel- 
lers have  never  been  conscious;  that  is  to  say, 
I  got  so  far  as  the  incipient  stage  of  a  resolution 
never  to  trust  my  precious  neck  (the  word 
precious,  again,  is  used  in  a  subjective  sense) 
in  discovering  new  Alpine  passes.  One  or  two 
positions,  distinctly  imprinted  upon  my  memory, 
could  be  easily  represented  by  Mr.  Whymper's 
pencil,    but   are  not   so   easily   translatable   into 


2o8       The  Playground  of  Europe 

language.  Nor,  indeed,  is  it  worth  while  to  tell 
the  old  story  over  again.  The  discontent  incident 
to  precarious  scrambling  was  aggravated  by  the 
sight  of  Loppe  and  Devouassoud  climbing  their 
chimney  with  great  ease  and  rapidity  and  greatly 
gaining  upon  us  in  height.  Soon,  however,  the 
tables  were  turned.  Once  on  the  backbone  of 
the  ridge  we  had  the  best  of  it.  In  fact  all  dif- 
ficulty was  over,  and  we  moved  at  breathless 
speed  towards  the  top.  Fischer  was  excited, 
and  felt  that  his  reputation  was  more  or  less  at 
stake.  We  were  bound  to  be  first  on  the  top, 
lest  those  verriickte  Franzosen — the  name,  I  deeply 
regret  to  say,  which  he  applied  to  our  excellent 
friends  in  the  chimney — should  laugh  at  our 
beards.  We  saw,  indeed,  and  the  sight  was 
balm  to  our  souls,  that  they  had  left  the  chimney 
on  the  opposite  side,  and  were  pressing,  with 
some  difficulty,  up  a  steep  snow-slope  which 
led  them  to  a  point  considerably  to  the  north 
of  that  at  which  we  were  aiming.  It  brought 
them,  however,  to  the  other  side  of  a  great  knob 
which  here  crowns  the  ridge,  and  we  were  there- 
fore invisible  to  each  other  during  the  last  few 
hundred  feet.  All  the  more  we  strained  every 
nerve  to  reach  the  top;  and  a  new  cause  in- 
creased our  anxiety.  I  had  pointed  out  to  Ken- 
nedy  the   beautv   of  certain   light   clouds  which 


The  Col  des  Hirondelles         209 

were  drifting  over  the  col  from  Italy,  and  tinged 
by  prismatic  colours  as  they  came  above  our 
heads.  Unluckily  they  came  thicker  and  deeper. 
As  we  reached  the  snow-mound  on  the  summit- 
ridge  we  were  enveloped  in  a  light  vapour  which 
effectually  hid  from  us  the  grand  precipices  of 
the  Jorasses,  and,  for  a  time,  concealed  all  but 
the  snows  in  our  immediate  neighbourhood. 
We  raised  a  shout,  partly  of  self-applause  and 
partly  as  a  challenge  to  our  rivals.  Had  we 
reached  the  top  first?  I  have  an  opinion  upon 
that  subject,  and  it  is  one  which  I  think  I  could 
support  by  sufficiently  conclusive  facts.  I  will 
add,  however,  that  no  persuasion,  short  of  absolute 
physical  torture,  shall  induce  me  to  reveal  it  even 
to  the  Alpine  Club,  which  has  the  first  right  to 
my  confidence.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  give  the 
slightest  sanction,  direct  or  indirect,  to  any 
spirit  of  rivalry  between  climbers.  Racing  in 
the  Alps  is  an  utter  abomination,  and  I  have 
never  been  guilty  of  such  a  crime;  except,  indeed, 
once  in  an  ascent  of  Mont  Blanc,  and  again,  I 
fear,  in  a  dash  up  the  ^Eggischhorn,  and  yet 
once  or  twice  more  on  some  of  the  Oberland 
peaks,  and  perhaps  on  a  few  other  occasions 
which  I  decline  to  mention  more  particularly 
at  the  present  moment.  But  my  principles  are 
good  if  my  conduct  is  occasionally  inconsistent. 


21  o        The  Playground  of  Europe 

And  therefore,  without  throwing  any  light  upon 
the  question,  I  will  merely  remark  that  our 
party  reached  the  summit  about  nine;  having 
thus  occupied  a  little  over  two  hours  in  climbing 
the  last  rocks.  I  should  guess  their  height  very 
roughly  at  some  1200  feet;  and,  as  the  process 
involved  some  step-cutting,  and  the  passage  of 
the  bergschrund,  it  will  be  seen  that  no  serious 
difficulties  were  encountered.  I  will  add  further, 
that  though  our  col  was  the  point  which  would 
naturally  be  selected  from  the  French  side,  the 
descent  upon  the  Italian  side  was  probably 
easier  from  Loppe's.  The  difference,  however,  is 
trifling. 

To  lie  on  the  summit  of  a  new  and  first-rate 
pass  is  a  pleasure  which,  in  the  nature  of  things, 
can  be  but  rarely  enjoyed.  Our  spirits  were 
naturally  exuberant.  What  was  it  to  us  that 
imagination  instead  of  bodily  eyesight  had  to 
picture  the  butt-end  of  the  lion-like  mass  of  the 
Jorasses,  the  wild  sea  of  unfrequented  peaks 
towards  the  Lechaud  and  Triolet,  the  long  vista 
down  which  the  Mer  de  Glace  flows  to  the  Cha- 
mouni  Valley,  and  the  purple  hills  towards  the 
St.  Bernard?  If  to  us  it  makes  little  difference, 
it  clearly  makes  less  to  my  readers,  except  that 
it  saves  them  a  passage  of  description  which  they 
can    imagine    for   themselves   quite   as   easily   as 


The  Col  des  Hirondelles  211 

we  imagined  the  view.  They  may  take  it  for 
granted,  too,  that  we  were  hilarious,  excited, 
full  of  fellow-feeling,  and  very  much  inclined  to 
such  skylarking  as  can  be  indulged  upon  a 
glacier.  And  I  may  add  that  the  skylarking 
was  of  a  very  superior  order.  A  momentary 
rent  in  the  clouds  had  revealed  the  green  valley 
floor  of  the  Val  Ferret  some  7000  feet  below 
us,  and  showed,  too,  the  right  way  to  reach  it. 
From  our  feet  the  grand  glacier,  strongly  resem- 
bling the  upper  part  of  the  Viescher-Firn  below 
the  Monch-Joch,  hurled  itself  madly  downwards 
from  the  mighty  cirque  of  cliffs.  It  was  a  glacier 
of  a  rollicking  spirit,  given  to  plunging  in  broad 
curves  over  hidden  ridges  of  rock;  playing  all 
kinds  of  practical  jokes  with  grotesque  masses 
of  serae;  sometimes  allowing  us  to  indulge  in 
a  glissade  where  we  had  expected  to  be  cut  off 
by  an  ice-cliff,  and  sometimes  playfully  opening 
a  large  crevasse  beneath  our  feet,  and  forcing 
us  to  take  a  flying  leap  which  was  decidedly 
more  convenient  from  above  than  it  would  have 
been  from  below.  It  was  a  grand  sight  to  see 
the  heavy-weights  of  the  party  hesitating  for  a 
few  moments  above  some  such  chasm,  and  then 
come  flying  through  the  air  with  the  swoop  of 
an  eagle  and  the  grace  of  a  coal-sack.  It  was 
delicious  to  go  head  over  heels  in  a  huge  bank 


2  1  2 


The  Playground  of  Europe 


of  knee-deep  snow,  and  feel  that  the  farther  you 
fell  the  more  trouble  you  saved.  Without  a 
single  serious  check  we  rushed  at  the  pas  gym- 
nast ique  from  the  foot  of  the  first  snow-slope, 
which  was  a  little  too  steep  to  be  trifled  with, 
to  the  point  where  we  had  to  leave  the  glacier. 
And  it  is  only  necessary  to  say,  for  a  rule  to  our 
followers,  that  they  will  not  go  far  wrong  if  they 
keep  as  much  to  the  left  as  possible  during  the 
descent.  The  knowledge  acquired  by  Kennedy's 
party  on  their  former  expedition  was  of  material 
service  to  us  in  discovering  the  precise  route  to 
be  followed.  The  Glacier  de  Freboutzie  itself 
falls  over  cliffs  through  which  it  is  impossible 
to  find  a  way.  But,  by  crossing  the  ice  which 
descends  from  the  Aiguille  de  Lechaud,  just 
above  the  point  where  the  torrent  bursts  forth 
in  a  waterfall,  a  lofty  patch  of  grass  is  reached  on 
the  northern  side  of  the  lateral  valley.  Thence 
to  the  floor  of  the  Val  Ferret  there  is  a  rather 
troublesome  walk.  It  is  necessary  to  find  a 
passage  through  some  slippery  rocks,  and  when 
at  their  base  to  cross  a  region  covered  with  huge 
loose  stones,  which  appear  to  be  the  ruins  of  a 
gigantic  moraine.  For  half  an  hour,  I  should 
think,  we  were  risking  sprained  ankles  across 
this  detestable  wilderness;  but  safety  and  luxury 
were  at  the  other  end.     It  was  a  delicious  walk 


The  Col  des  Hirondelles  213 

that  afternoon  clown  to  Courmayeur.  Delicious 
was  the  milk  which  an  old  woman  brought  from 
a  chalet  in  return  for  a  franc,  volunteering  a 
benevolent  blessing  into  the  bargain.  Delicious, 
too,  was  the  rest  under  a  clump  of  fragrant  pines, 
rendered  still  more  fragrant  by  our  fumigation, 
on  the  edge  of  the  flooded  meadows.  And  most 
delicious  was  the  view  of  the  soft  Val  d'Aosta 
which  opened  upon  us  as  we  rounded  the  Mont 
Saxe,  and  saw  the  group  of  inferior  mountains 
round  Courmayeur,  whose  graceful  forms  and 
rich  hues  announce  their  Italian  character.  With 
all  my  love  for  the  sterner  scenery  of  the  hither 
side  of  the  Alps,  and  my  dread  of  demoralisation 
in  the  lazy  atmosphere  of  the  South,  I  cannot 
deny  that  Courmayeur  is  one  of  the  very  most 
exquisite  of  all  Alpine  scenes.  I  felt  friendly 
towards  the  good-natured  Italian  bathing  guests, 
who  stared  at  their  uncouth  visitors  from  the 
ice-world  as  their  classical  ancestors  might  have 
stared  at  a  newly-caught  Briton.  Even  that 
noble  creature  who  rejoiced  in  the  costume  of 
our  operatic  bandit  by  way  of  tribute  to  the 
general  spirit  of  the  place,  was  pleasant  in  my 
eyes;  for  was  not  his  presence  suggestive  of 
good  inns,  where  we  might  luxuriate  in  some 
comfort,  and  with  less  interruption  from  cock- 
neydom  than  at  Chamouni?     The  next  day  was 


214       The  Playground  of  Europe 

spent  as  the  day  after  a  grand  expedition  should 
always  be  spent — in  chewing  the  cud  of  our 
recollections  whilst  lounging  about-  the  lovely 
Courmayeur  meadows.  We  lay  in  the  sun  in 
company  with  basking  lizards,  alternately  watch- 
ing the  idiotic  pranks  of  the  grasshoppers,  who 
are  always  taking  the  most  violent  and  pur- 
poseless exercise  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  and 
speculating  on  the  possibility  of  making  a  direct 
escalade  of  Mont  Blanc  by  the  southern  buttress. 
That  feat  still  waits  for  a  performer.  Loppe  and 
I  returned  next  day  to  Chamouni  by  the  Col 
du  Geant,  arriving  at  about  the  same  time  with 
the  telegram  which  we  had  despatched  on  our 
arrival  at  Courmayeur. 

And  now  it  only  remains  for  me  to  give  an  im- 
partial estimate  of  the  merits  of  our  pass.  Its 
height  is  not  marked  upon  the  French  map,  and 
I  can  only  conjecture  that  it  is  approximately 
the  same  as  that  of  the  Col  du  Geant.  Compar- 
ing it  *~  'ch  that  king  of  passes,  I  may  say,  in 
the  first  place,  that  it  would  probably  occupy  a 
rather  longer  time  on  an  average.  Six  hours 
brought  us  from  Montanvert  to  the  summit,  and 
six  more  took  us  to  the  inn  at  Courmayeur.  The 
first  six  might  have  to  be  indefinitely  extended 
in  unfavourable  conditions  of  the  snow.  I  do 
not  think,  with  some  of  our  party,  that  we  were 


The  Col  des  Hirondelles  215 

exceptionally  lucky  in  this  respect.  I  am  rather 
inclined  to  the  opinion  that  the  new  snow  bothered 
us  on  the  rocks  more  than  it  helped  us  in  the 
chimney.  This  is  a  matter  on  which  subsequent 
experience  must  decide.  The  climb,  however, 
of  the  last  ridge  will  always  present  greater 
difficulties  than  any  part  of  the  Col  du  Geant 
route,  unless,  indeed,  it  should  happen  that  the 
passage  through  the  seracs  of  the  Geant,  now 
so  easy,  should  again  become  troublesome.  On 
the  Italian  side,  again,  the  Col  des  Hirondelles, 
though  not  exceptionally  bad,  lies  over  a  very 
contorted  glacier,  and  may  at  times  be  toilsome, 
especially  in  the  ascent.  It,  of  course,  will  require 
more  labour  than  the  delightful  walk  over  the 
Mont  Frety  to  the  Col  du  Geant.  On  the  whole, 
therefore,  our  pass  will  probably  be  the  more 
laborious  of  the  two.  Comparing  them  in  regard 
to  scenery,  I  fear  that  there  can  be  but  one  reply. 
The  Col  du  Geant  is  and  must  always  remain  one 
of  the  first  two  or  three,  if  not  actually  the  first, 
in  beauty  of  all  Alpine  passes.  The  partiality 
of  new  discoverers  has  set  up  rivals  to  it  at  one 
time  or  another;  but  its  grandeur  and  variety 
are  always  fresh,  and  nowhere,  in  my  knowledge, 
to  be  fairly  equalled.  The  view  towards  Italy, 
the  magnificent  view  of  Mont  Blanc,  the  grand 
basin  of  the  upper  glacier,  the  icefall,  still  noble 


216        The  Playground  of  Europe 

in  its  decay,  may  be  separately  equalled  else- 
where ;  but  I  do  not  think  that  any  pass,  even 
in  the  Oberland  or  at  Zermatt,  presents  so  mar- 
vellous a  combination.  The  Col  des  Hirondelles, 
shut  in  by  the  Jorasses,  must  have  but  a  limited 
prospect,  if  any,  of  the  great  peaks.  To  my 
mind,  its  great  charm  is  in  the  wild  Glacier  de 
Freboutzie,  which  is  the  perfection  of  savage 
seclusion.  I  always  love  these  recesses  of  the 
great  chasm,  where  the  spirits  that  haunt  solitudes 
have  not  yet  been  finally  exorcised.  Centuries 
will  elapse  at  our  present  rate  of  progress  before 
the  Freboutzie  will  become  a  sightseer's  glacier, 
and  perhaps  by  that  time  it  will  be  a  glacier  no 
more.  All  that  I  can  fairly  claim,  however,  for 
our  new  pass  is  that  it  may  afford  a  useful  al- 
ternative to  the  Col  du  Geant ;  but  it  is  eminently 
beautiful,  though  decidedly  inferior  to  its  su- 
perlatively beautiful  rival.  Moreover,  no  true 
Alpine  traveller  can  look  at  it  from  the  Montan- 
vert  without  wishing  to  cross  it.  If  he  does, 
it  is  my  last  warning  to  him  that  the  descent 
towards  Italy,  easy  enough  when  the  right  way 
is  known,  requires  some  local  knowledge  or 
careful  steering.  May  our  successors  have  as 
good  fortune  as  fell  to  our  lot  in  this  as  in 
all  other  respects!  If  so,  I  have  no  fear  that 
they  will   be   ungrateful    to    the    fortunate    dis- 


The  Col  des  Hirondelles  217 

coverers  of  this,  amongst  the  most  familiar  of 
all  great  Alpine  passes  as  part  of  a  view, 
though  the  last  to  be  recognised  as  a  practicable 
route. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  BATHS  OF  SANTA  CATARINA 

On  a  bright  day  in  the  autumn  of  1869,  I  was 
standing  on  the  balcony  of  a  well-known  inn 
near  the  baths  of  St.  Aloritz.  A  little  procession 
of  ladies  and  gentlemen  issued  from  the  hotel 
and  descended  the  slopes  towards  the  banks 
of  the  lake.  I  immediately  became  aware — 
I  know  not  whether  from  positive  information 
or  from  some  instinctive  sense  of  reverence — 
that  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  was  standing 
in  presence  of  a  genuine  king.  An  emperor  I 
have  seen  before,  and  I  have  more  than  once 
taken  off  my  hat  to  the  queen  of  these  islands. 
But  a  king  is  now  a  rarity,  and  I  was  propor- 
tionately delighted  with  the  opportunity  of  dis- 
charging in  my  own  person  the  functions  of 
a  Court  Circular.  His  majesty,  I  might  say 
on  my  own  authority,  accompanied  by  his  royal 
consort,  and  attended  by  the  lords  and  ladies 
in  waiting,  took  the  recreation  of  a  walk  on  the 
banks  of  the  Lake  of  St.  Moritz.  Yet  a  certain 
drop   of   bitterness   mingled    in   my   cup,    and    it 

218 


The  Baths  of  Santa  Catarina      219 

was  intensified  by  an  incident  which  took  place 
that  evening.  I  was  confronted  at  supper  by 
a  person  belonging  to  a  class  unfortunately  not 
so  rare  as  that  of  royal  personages.  The  genuine 
British  cockney  in  all  his  terrors  was  before  me. 
The  windows  of  the  dining-room  opened  upon 
all  the  soft  beauty  of  a  quiet  Alpine  valley  in  a 
summer  evening.  Far  above  us  the  snow-clad 
range  of  the  Palii  and  Bernina  still  glowed  with 
the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  But  the  cockney 
was  not  softened  by  its  influence,  and  he  talked 
in  full  perfection  the  language  of  his  native 
streets.  He  elaborately  discussed  the  badness  of 
the  liquors  provided  for  us.  He  tasted  some 
of  the  bottle  which  I  had  ordered,  and  was  peace- 
fully consuming,  and  condescended  to  inform  me 
that  it  was  "devilish  bad."  He  went  into  the 
merits  of  all  the  inns  which  had  had  the  benefit 
of  his  patronage,  discriminated  with  great  clear- 
ness between  the  qualities  of  the  Cognac  which 
they  provided ;  and  showed  his  superiority  as 
a  Briton  by  condemning  them  all  with  various 
degrees  of  severity,  with  the  exception  of  one 
whose  landlord  had  been  waiter  at  a  great  London 
hotel,  and  had  thereby  attained  a  comparative 
degree  of  civilisation.  He  thought  it  proper 
to  add  a  few  remarks  upon  the  scenery  of  the 
country-,    extracted    with    more    or    less    fidelity 


220      The  Playground  of  Europe 

from  Murray  or  Baedeker ;  and  I  know  not  whether 
his  aesthetical  or  his  practical  remarks  were  the 
more  significant  of  delicate  sensibility.  Anyhow, 
two  hours  of  his  conversation  were  enough  for 
my  nerves,  and  I  retired  to  meditate  on  things 
in  general  and  the  beauty  of  the  evening.  One 
conclusion  became  abundantly  clear  to  me. 
Kings  and  cockneys,  I  thought,  may  be  excellent 
people  in  their  way.  I  love  cockneys  because 
they  are  my  neighbours,  and  the  love  of  our 
neighbour  is  a  Christian  duty.  I  revere  kings 
because  I  was  taught  to  do  so  at  school,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  sermons  and  church  services  in 
which  the  same  duty  was  impressed.  But  they 
have  in  common  the  property  of  being  very 
objectionable  neighbours  at  an  hotel.  They 
raise  prices  and  destroy  solitude,  and  make  an 
Alpine  valley  pretty  nearly  as  noisy  and  irritating 
to  the  nerves  as  St.  James's.  Was  it  worth  while 
to  travel  some  hundred  miles  to  find  one's  self 
still  in  the  very  thick  of  civilisation?  Kings, 
I  know,  have  to  travel  (sometimes  against  their 
will),  and  so  must  cockneys,  if  it  be  right,  which 
I  admit  to  be  an  open  question,  that  either  class 
should  continue  to  exist ;  and  certainly  so  long 
as  they  exist,  I  have  no  right  to  demand  their 
expulsion  from  the  Engadine.  Indeed,  on  second 
thoughts,  it  is  perhaps  as  well  that  they  should 


The  Baths  of  Santa  Catarina     221 

go  there.  The  gregarious  instinct  has  doubtless 
been  implanted  in  the  breast  of  the  commonplace 
traveller  for  a  wise  purpose.  It  is  true  that  it 
leads  migratory  herds  to  spoil  and  trample  under 
foot  some  of  the  loveliest  of  Alpine  regions,  such 
as  Chamouni  or  Interlaken.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  it  draws  them  together  into  a  limited 
number  of  districts,  and  leaves  vast  regions 
untrodden  and  unspoilt  on  either  side  of  the 
beaten  tracks.  St.  Moritz  acts  like  one  of  those 
flytraps  to  be  seen  in  old-fashioned  inns,  which 
do  not  indeed  diminish  the  swarm  of  intrusive 
insects,  but  profess  at  least  to  confine  them  to 
one  spot.  And  if  any  district  were  to  be  selected 
into  which  the  cockneyism  of  the  surrounding 
Alps  might  be  drained  as  into  a  reservoir,  certainly 
no  better  selection  could  be  made  than  St.  Moritz. 
The  upper  valley  of  the  Inn  is  one  of  the  very 
few  Alpine  districts  which  may  almost  be  called 
ugly.  The  high  bleak  level  tract,  with  monoton- 
ous ranges  of  pine  forests  at  a  uniform  slope,  has 
as  little  of  the  picturesque  as  can  well  be  contrived 
in  the  mountains.  Even  in  the  great  peaks  there 
is  a  singular  want  of  those  daring  and  graceful 
forms,  those  spires,  and  domes,  and  pinnacles, 
which  give  variety  and  beauty  to  the  other  groat 
mountain  masses.  I  should  rejoice  if  it  could 
be   made   into   Norfolk   Island   of  the  Alps,   and 


222       The  Playground  of  Europe 

all  kings,  cockneys,  persons  travelling  with 
couriers,  Americans  doing  Europe  against  time, 
Cook's  tourists  and  their  like,  commercial  travel- 
lers, and  especially  that  variety  of  English  clergy- 
man which  travels  in  dazzling  white  ties  and 
forces  church  services  upon  you  by  violence  in 
remote  country  inns,  could  be  confined  within 
it  to  amuse  or  annoy  one  another.  Meanwhile, 
though  this  policy  has  not  been  carried  out,  it 
is  gratifying  that  a  spontaneous  process  of  natural 
selection  has  done  something  of  the  kind.  Like 
flies  to  like;  the  cockney  element  accumulates 
like  the  precious  metal  in  the  lodes  of  rich  mines ; 
and  some  magnificent  nuggets  may  be  found 
in  and  about  St.  Moritz;  but  luckily  at  no  great 
distance  may  be  found  regions  as  bare  of  cockneys 
as  a  certain  Wheal  something  or  other  of  my 
(too  close)  acquaintance  appears  to  be  of  copper. 
A  day's  journey,  I  knew,  would  take  us  into  regions 
still  in  all  the  freshness  of  their  primitive  in- 
nocence; regions  where  the  Times  is  never  seen, 
where  English  is  heard  as  rarely  as  Sanskrit, 
and  where  the  native  herdsman  who  offers  milk 
to  the  weary  traveller  refuses  to  take  coin  in 
exchange  for  it.  As  I  thought  of  these  things 
I  rejoiced  that  we  could  leave  St.  Moritz  behind 
us,  and  fly  to  a  certain  haven  of  refuge.  I  almost 
hesitate  to  reveal  the  name  of  the  hiding-place 


The  Baths  of  Santa  Catarina       223 

to  which  we  retreated.  Shall  I  not  in  some 
degree  be  accessory  to  the  intrusion  of  some 
detachment  from  that  army  of  British  travellers 
which  is  forcing  its  relentless  way  into  every 
hole  and  corner  of  the  country?  Will  not  some 
future  wanderer  take  up  his  parable  against  me 
and  denounce  this  paper  as  amongst  the  first 
trifling  hints  which  raised  the  sluices  and  let 
the  outside  world  into  this  little  paradise?  My 
reluctance,  however,  is  overpowered  by  certain 
weighty  reasons.  As,  first,  I  cannot  hope  that 
my  voice  will  attract  the  notice  of  any  great 
number  of  persons;  secondly,  my  readers,  though 
few,  will  of  course  be  amongst  the  select,  whose 
presence  will  be  a  blessing  rather  than  a  curse 
to  the  inhabitants ;  thirdly,  the  inhabitants 
would,  I  am  sure,  be  grateful  for  an  advertise- 
ment, and  I  should  be  glad  to  do  them  a  trifling 
service,  even  though,  in  my  judgment,  of  doubtful 
value;  fourthly,  if  any  appreciable  number  of 
Britons  should  take  the  hint,  they  will  at  least 
bring  with  them  one  benefit,  which  cannot  be 
reckoned  as  inconsiderable,  namely,  a  freer  use 
of  the  tub  and  scrubbing-brush;  and,  considering 
that  the  insinuation  conveyed  in  the  last  sentence 
would  in  itself  be  sufficient  to  hold  many  persons 
at  a  distance,  I  will  take  courage  and  avow  that 
the  place  of  which  1  have  been  speaking  is  Santa 


224         The  Playground  of  Europe 

Catarina,  near  Bormio.  Thither,  in  two  clays' 
easy  travelling  from  St.  Moritz,  we  conveyed 
ourselves  and  our  baggage,  and  to  it  I  propose 
to  devote  a  few  pages  of  rather  desultory  remark. 
I  cannot  do  all  that  would  be  required  from  the 
compiler  of  a  handbook;  I  know  little  of  the 
waters  consumed  by  the  guests,  except  that 
they  have  a  nasty  taste  at  their  first  outbreak, 
but  are  good  to  drink  with  indifferent  wine; 
nor  am  I  great  at  orographical  or  geological 
or  botanical  disquisitions;  but  are  not  these 
things  written  in  the  admirable  guide-book  of 
Mr.  Ball?  and,  finally,  if  one  person  should  be 
induced  by  the  perusal — but  the  formula  is 
something  musty. 

I  must  beg  my  readers  to  imagine  an  Alpine 
meadow,  a  mile  or  two  in  diameter,  level  as  a 
cricket  field,  covered  with  the  velvet  turf  of 
a  mountain  pasturage,  and  looking  exquisitely 
soft  and  tender  to  eyes  wearied  with  the  long 
dusty  valley  which  stretches  from  the  Lake  of 
Como  to  the  foot  of  the  Stelvio.  Let  him  place 
a  few  chalets,  upon  whose  timbers  age  has  con- 
ferred a  rich  brown  hue,  at  picturesque  intervals, 
and  then  enclose  the  whole  with  mighty  mountain 
walls  to  keep  the  profane  vulgar  at  a  distance. 
On  two  sides  purple  forests  of  pine  rise  steeply 
from   the   meadow   floor   and    meet   a   little   way 


The  Baths  of  Santa  Catarina      225 

below  the  inn  to  form  the  steep  gorge  through 
which  the  glacier  torrent  foams  downwards  to 
join  the  Adda  at  Bormio.  In  front  the  glen  is 
closed  by  a  steeper  mountain,  whose  lower  slopes 
are  too  rough  and  broken  to  admit  of  continuous 
forest.  Above  them  rise  bare  and  precipitous 
rocks,  and  from  the  platform  thus  formed  there 
soars  into  the  air  one  of  the  most  graceful  of 
snow-peaks,  called  the  Tresero.  It  resembles 
strongly  the  still  nobler  pyramid  of  the  Weiss- 
horn,  as  seen  from  the  Rillel  at  Zermatt.  It 
is  certainly  not  comparable  in  majesty  with 
that  most  majestic  of  mountains;  as  indeed  it 
falls  short  of  it  in  height  by  some  three  or  four 
thousand  feet.  One  advantage  it  may  perhaps 
claim  even  above  so  redoubtable  a  rival:  the 
Weisshorn  only  reveals  its  full  beauties  to  those 
who  have  climbed  to  a  considerable  height  above 
the  ordinary  limits  of  habitation,  whereas  the 
Tresero  condescends  to  exhibit  itself  even  to 
the  least  adventurous  of  tourists.  It  is,  indeed, 
like  all  other  great  mountains,  more  lovely  when 
contemplated  from  something  like  a  level  with 
itself.  Lofty  Alps,  like  lofty  characters,  require 
for  their  due  appreciation  some  elevation  in 
the  spectator.  One  of  the  most  perfect  moments 
in  which  I  have  ever  caught  a  share  of  the  true 

mountain  spirit  was  when  looking  at  the  Tresero 

j  5 


226      The  Playground  of  Europe 

from  a  high  shelf  on  the  opposite  range.  The 
immediate  foreground  was  formed  by  a  little  tarn, 
covered  in  great  part  with  the  white  tufts  of  the 
cotton  grass,  dancing  as  merrily  in  the  evening 
breeze  as  Wordsworth's  notorious  daffodils.  Two 
massive  ribs  of  rock  descending  on  each  side,  like 
Catchedicam  and  the  "huge  nameless  peak" 
embracing  the  Red  Tarn  on  Helvellyn,  formed 
a  kind  of  framework  to  the  picture.  In  front, 
the  whole  intervening  space  was  filled  by  the 
towering  cone  of  the  Tresero,  with  torn  glaciers 
streaming  from  its  sides,  and  glowing  with  the 
indescribable  colours  of  sunset  on  eternal  snow. 
The  perfect  calmness  of  an  Alpine  evening,  with 
not  a  sound  but  the  tinkling  of  cattle-bells  below, 
gave  a  certain  harmony  to  the  picture,  and 
breathed  the  very  essence  ot  repose.  The  domestic 
quiet  of  English  fields  in  an  autumn  evening  is 
impressive  and  soothing;  but  there  is  something 
far  more  impressive  to  my  mind  in  the  repose 
of  one  of  these  great  Alps,  which  shows  in  every 
rock  and  contorted  glacier  that  clings  to  its 
sides  the  severity  of  its  habitual  struggle  with  the 
elements.  It  is  the  repose  of  a  soldier  resting 
in  the  midst  of  a  battle,  not  that  of  a  stolid 
farmer  smoking  his  evening  pipe  after  a  supper 
of  fat  bacon.  Seen,  however,  from  any  point 
of  view,  and  under  any  circumstances,  whether 


The  Baths  of  Santa  Catarina      227 

under  a  clear  sky  or  when  a  thunderstorm  is 
gathering  under  the  lee  of  its  grand  cliffs,  the 
Tresero  is  a  lovely  object.  At  Santa  Catarina  it 
naturally  forms  the  centre  of  every  view,  or 
serves  as  a  charming  background  to  the  more 
diminutive  but  hardly  less  exquisite  pictures 
which  a  traveller  may  discover  in  every  nook 
and   corner  of  the  Alps. 

To  complete  the  portrait  of  Santa  Catarina, 
I  must  add  one,  and,  it  must  be  admitted,  a 
very  important  element  in  the  view.  We  are 
constantly  assured  in  an  advertisement  which 
has  lately  been  appearing  that  the  finest  scenery 
in  the  world  is  improved  by  a  good  hotel  in  the 
foreground.  There  is  some  truth  in  the  aphorism ; 
and  I  shall  certainly  not  seek  to  dispute  its 
application  in  the  present  case.  I  must  therefore 
ask  the  reader  to  place  on  the  edge  of  a  flat 
meadow  a  long  low  building  of  rough  stone, 
resembling  a  barrack  more  than  an  hotel.  Out- 
side there  is  nothing  very  attractive;  and  within 
there  are  certain  difficulties  to  be  overcome  by 
a  fastidious  taste.  The  establishment  has  a 
certain  dishevelled  and  perplexed  aspect,  not 
exactly  in  harmony  with  English  notions  of 
order.  There  is  an  unorganised  crowd  of  persons, 
male  and  female,  who  appear  more  or  less  to 
discharge    the    dutv    of    waiters    and    chamber- 


228        The  Playground  of  Europe 

maids.  One  is  occasionally  tripped  up  by  a 
stumbling-block  on  the  stairs  composed  of  an 
overwearied  woman  who  has  fallen  asleep  whilst 
accidentally  blacking  a  miscellaneous  boot.  The 
scrubbing  of  floors  seems  to  be  trusted  to  the 
occasional  zeal  of  volunteers,  and  the  zeal  requires 
some  prompting  from  surreptitious  bribes.  A 
garment  entrusted  to  the  washerwoman  has  to 
be  recovered  a  week  afterwards  by  a  journey  of 
discovery  through  certain  mysterious  subter- 
raneous passages.  If  you  want  a  dish,  the  best 
plan  is  to  go  into  the  kitchen,  where  amongst 
a  crowd  of  smokers  and  idlers  you  may  be  able 
to  enter  into  conversation  with  the  cook.  The 
landlord  as  a  general  rule  is  round  the  corner 
with  a  cigar  in  his  mouth  talking  to  a  friend. 
Were  it  not  that  the  head  waiter  is  a  man  of 
genius,  the  whole  management  of  the  business 
would  be  in  danger  of  collapse.  Moreover,  to 
hint  at  a  delicate  point,  you  may  probably  be 
seated  at  dinner  opposite  to  a  lady  or  gentleman 
of  primitive  costume,  whose  ideas  on  the  re- 
spective uses  of  knives,  fingers,  and  forks  are 
totally  opposed  to  all  the  usages  current  in  the 
polite  society  of  London.  Neither,  I  am  bound 
to  confess,  is  Santa  Catarina  a  complete  exception 
to  a  highly  general  rule"  that  the  visitors  to  baths 
are  not  amongst  the  most  congenial  of  companions. 


The  Baths  of  Santa  Catarina      229 

Yet  the  remark  reminds  me  of  one  great  com- 
pensation. Neither  guests  nor  inhabitants  are 
English.  If  they  were  they  would  nearly  be 
intolerable.  Xor  does  this  proposition,  when 
rightly  understood,  imply  any  want  of  proper 
patriotism.  An  Englishman  is,  of  course,  the 
first  of  created  beings;  and  he  owes  this  pre- 
eminence in  great  degree  to  his  remarkable 
powers  of  self-assertion.  As  an  Italian  visitor 
informed  me,  the  great  motto  of  the  English 
race  is  "Selelf"  a  mysterious  word,  which, 
after  some  investigation,  I  discovered  to  be 
the  Italian  version  of  the  title  of  Mr.  Smiles 's 
book  Self -Help.  Now  "selelf"  means  the  power 
and  the  will  of  treading  on  any  toes  that  are 
in  your  way.  As  a  corollary  from  this  it  follows 
that  an  English  snob  is  the  most  offensive  of 
snobs,  English  dirt  the  most  obtrusive  of  dirt, 
and,  in  short,  even-thing  bad  that  is  English, 
about  the  most  objectionable  of  its  kind  to  be 
found  in  Europe.  Had  those  knifophagous 
persons  who  sat  opposite  me  at  dinner  been  of 
English  extraction  they  would  have  been  actively 
as  well  as  passively  offensive.  Indeed  I  think 
it  highly  probable  that  they  would  have  gone 
so  far  as  to  speak  to  me.  An  inn  with  floors  as 
ignorant  of  the  broom  as  those  in  Santa  Catarina 
would    in    England    have    implied    a    defiance    of 


230        The  Playground  of  Europe 

all  decency.  The  house  would  have  resembled 
one  described  in  a  late  lawsuit  in  London  where 
a  witness  swore  to  having  met  five  bugs  calmly 
walking  downstairs  abreast- — I  had  almost  said 
arm  in  arm- — and  where,  if  I  remember  rightly, 
the  fleas  sat  on  the  chairs  and  barked  at  you.  The 
food  in  such  a  case  would  have  been  calculated 
to  try  the  digestion  of  an  ostrich;  and  the  land- 
lord would  have  been  a  cross  between  a  prize- 
fighter and  a  thimblerigger.  But  Italian  dirt, 
though  unpleasant,  is  not  of  that  uncompromising 
character.  It  is  the  product,  not  of  a  brutal 
revolt  against  decency,  but  of  an  easy-going 
indolence.  It  is,  as  Heine  somewhere  says, 
"  grossartiger  Schmutz."  The  squalor  of  an 
Italian  town  surrounds  monuments  of  incom- 
parable beaut}",  and  somehow  does  not  seem 
altogether  out  of  harmony  with  them.  It  is  of 
a  different  order  from  the  hopeless  filth  which 
agrees  only  too  well  with  the  unspeakable  ugliness 
of  a  back  slum  in  London.  Like  the  dirt  which 
obscures  some  masterpiece  in  painting,  one  fears 
to  see  it  removed,  lest  soap  and  water  too  ener- 
getically used  should  remove  something  more 
than  the  superfluous  coating  of  matter  out  of 
place,  and  reveal  a  raw  glaring  surface,  untouched 
by  the  mellowing  influence  of  time,  and  fit  rather 
for  some  mushroom  city  in  America  than  for  an 


The  Baths  of  Santa  Catarina      231 

ancient  building  smelling — only  too  literally — 
of  history.  And  thus  the  dirt  of  Santa  Cata- 
rina is  not  incompatible  with  many  excellencies. 
The  food,  for  example,  which  issues  from  that 
singular  kitchen,  with  its  crowds  of  unoccupied 
loungers,  is  of  unimpeachable  quality.  The 
servants  are  externally  grubby,  but  have  always 
a  pleasant  answer  to  demands  which  to  them 
must  appear  unreasonable,  and  are  willing  to 
do  their  best  to  satisfy  the  "selelf"-ful  English- 
man. And  mixed  with  guests  of  strangely  uncouth 
appearance  are  many  of  whose  refinement  and 
kindliness  we  shall  always  retain  a  grateful 
recollection. 

Here,  indeed,  occurs  a  problem  which,  I  fear, 
must  be  abandoned  as  insoluble.  No  philosophical 
account  has  yet  been  given  of  national  differences 
of  character,  and  it  is  hard  to  pronounce  positively 
upon  the  rival  merits  of  types  so  different  as 
the  English  and  Italian.  The  Briton  drops  in  upon 
the  guests  at  such  an  establishment  and  looks 
upon  them  with  wondering  contempt.  He  is 
not  improbably  a  member  of  the  Alpine  Club. 
His  patron  saints  are  Saussure  and  Balmat. 
His  delight  is  to  wander  all  day  amidst  rocks 
and  snow;  to  come  as  near  breaking  his  neck 
as  his  conscience  will  allow,  and  after  consuming 
a  Homeric  meal,  to  smoke  his  evening  pipe  and 


232        The  Playground  of  Europe 

retire  for  a  short  sleep  before  another  start. 
The  Italian  appears  to  pass  his  day  in  elaborate 
indolence.  He  walks  half  a  mile,  till  the  hill 
begins  to  rise,  and  then  sits  down  and  basks 
through  the  sunny  day.  His  most  vigorous 
exercise  is  a  short  game  of  bowls  after  dinner, 
and  he  passes  his  evening  dancing,  or  getting 
up  lotteries,  or  listening  to  an  impromptu  concert, 
or,  for  to  such  a  height  did  the  revels  rise  on  one 
occasion,  in  playing  blindman's  buff.  He  is  a 
sociable  being,  and  does  not  glower  at  his  fellows 
with  the  proper  British  air,  which  means,  to  all 
appearance,  You  may  go  to  any  place  in  this 
world  or  the  next  sooner  than  I  will  touch  you 
with  a  pair  of  tongs.  Which  is  the  best  type 
of  mankind?  Personally  I  confess,  that  though 
I  would  fain  be  cosmopolitan,  I  prefer  my  fellow- 
countrymen.  After  the  most  vigorous  efforts  to 
be  properly  cynical  as  to  muscular  Christianity, 
or  the  more  common  disease  of  muscularity, 
pure  and  simple,  I  have  a  sneaking  but  ineradic- 
able belief  in  the  virtues  of  the  scrambling  Briton. 
He  shares  some  of  that  quality  which,  in  con- 
sequence of  some  strange  theological  notions, 
we  generally  describe  as  "devil."  That  it  should 
be  complimentary  to  a  man  in  common  parlance 
to  say  that  he  has  plenty  of  the  Evil  One  in 
his    disposition    is    a    curious    circumstance,  and 


The  Baths  of  Santa  Catarina      233 

shows,  it  may  be,  how  easily  we  come  to  the  old 
heathen  substratum  by  scratching  the  modern 
surface.  Perhaps  our  opinion  of  the  devil  is 
rather  better  than  might  be  gathered  from  ser- 
mons. We  sympathise  with  the  true  hero  of  Para- 
disc  Lost,  and  think  that  he  would  make  a  very 
useful  ally,  if  he  could  be  persuaded  to  desert 
his  party.  He  was  certainly  not  wanting  in 
the  spirit  of  "selelf."  But,  at  any  rate,  I  confess 
to  a  liking  for  my  restless  and  unreasonable 
compatriots,  whatever  be  the  proper  name  of 
the  quality  to  which  their  vigour  is  owing.  I 
admit,  however,  that  much  is  to  be  said  on  the 
other  side;  and  I  should  despair  of  impressing 
my  opinions  upon  minds  of  a  different  cast. 
Not  far  from  Santa  Catarina  is  an  object  which 
impressed  upon  me,  in  a  far  wider  sense,  the 
width  of  the  gulf  which  intervenes  between  our 
own  and  certain  foreign  modes  of  thought.  It 
is  a  pleasant  practice  in  those  regions  to  collect 
the  bones  of  the  dead  to  afford  an  edifying  spec- 
tacle to  posterity.  But  I  have  never  seen,  nor 
do  I  wish  to  see,  anything  comparable  to  the 
ossuary  in  the  neighbouring  village  of  St.  Antonio. 
There  is  the  usual  pile  of  bones  and  grinning 
skulls  outside  of  the  parish  church.  In  the  midst 
of  them  stand  two  inexpressibly  ghastly  skeletons 
with   the   remnants   of   flesh   still   clinging  to  the 


234       The  Playground  of  Europe 

bones — -a  sight  to  turn  one  sick  at  the  time  and 
to  revisit  one  in  dreams.  It  appears  to  be  a 
superstition  that  the  bodies  of  those  who  die 
on  Christmas  Day  never  decompose;  and  the 
loathsome  objects  which  confront  the  villagers 
of  St.  Antonio  are  intended,  it  seems,  as  practical 
exemplifications  of  this  truth.  I  can  only  say 
that  it  is  too  obvious,  either  that  the  legend  is 
mistaken,  or  that  the  persons  exhibited  died 
on  some  other  day.  He  would  be  a  bold  man 
who  should  propose  to  a  British  vestry  to  erect 
a  couple  of  bodies  of  defunct  parishioners  by 
the  side  of  a  church  door.  Yet  it  would  be  easy 
to  make  out  some  kind  of  argument  for  the 
practice.  Our  nerves,  it  might  be  said,  are 
unduly  delicate,  and  our  tastes  too  squeamish. 
We  don't  want  to  see  dead  bodies  opposite  St. 
James's  Church  in  Piccadilly,  but  that  is  because 
modern  life  is  devoid  of  seriousness.  How  could 
one  more  forcibly  impress  upon  the  mind  of  the 
beefy  shopkeeper  or  plethoric  farmer  the  truths 
that  all  flesh  is  grass,  that  in  the  midst  of  life 
we  arc  in  death,  and  other  well- worn  platitudes, 
than  by  exhibiting  in  all  its  horrors  the  loath- 
some spectacle  of  a  slowly  wasting  mummy? 
We  may  preach  for  hours  the  solemn  truths, 
as  we  are  pleased  to  call  them,  of  human  liability 
to  decay,  but  five  minutes  opposite  a  mouldering 


The  Baths  of  Santa  Catarina      235 

dead  body  every  morning  would  enable  us  to 
pierce  thick  hides  impenetrable  by  the  shafts 
of  our  rhetoric.  Is  not  the  power  of  contem- 
plating such  objects,  "between  the  wind  and  our 
nobility,"  connected  with  the  fact  that  religion 
seems  to  mean  something  much  more  living  in 
an  Alpine  valley  than  it  does  in  the  English 
lowlands?  The  little  chapel  at  Santa  Catarina 
was  seldom  without  a  devout  worshipper,  telling 
his  or  her  beads  with  immense  earnestness,  and 
apparently  believing  that  it  would  really  do 
some  kind  of  good ;  perhaps  make  the  cows 
produce  more  milk,  or  bring  down  more  rain  in 
spite  of  a  rising  barometer.  The  British  farmer, 
as  we  know,  goes  to  church  as  he  pays  his  rates, 
and  when  he  has  heard  the  parson  ' '  bumming 
away  like  a  buzzard-clock  over  his  head,"  thinks 
he  has  said  "what  he  owt  to  a'  said,"  and  comes 
away  not  appreciably  the  better  or  the  worse. 
Might  not  a  body  or  a  skull  or  two  do  him  a 
little  good,  and  wring  from  him  some  meditations 
after  the  fashion  of  Hamlet  on  Yorick?  We 
have  become  so  philosophical  and  refined  that 
our  national  religion  has  rather  lost  its  savour. 
A  ranter  may  touch  the  hearts  of  his  audience 
by  a  plentiful  use  of  hell-fire;  but  how  is  the 
well-dressed  parson,  who  aspires  to  have  a  taste, 
who  reads  the  Saturday  Review,  and  knows  that 


236       The  Playground  of  Europe 

hell-fire  is  a  metaphorical  expression,  to  provide 
food  highly  spiced  enough  for  such  robust  di- 
gestions ?  Would  not  some  good  material  images 
— pictures  of  souls  writhing  in  purgatory,  blood- 
stained crucifixes,  and  actual  bones  and  bodies — 
do  something  to  point  his  periods?  Sluggish 
imaginations  require  strong  stimulants;  and  if 
the  one  object  be  to  tickle  an  insensitive  palate, 
I  don't  know  that  the  prescription  employed  at 
St.  Antonio  may  not  be  a  very  good  one.  Scep- 
tics, indeed,  may  doubt  how  far  such  religious 
observances  help  to  elevate  the  understanding 
or  to  refine  the  imagination;  whether  prayers 
addressed  under  such  influences  are  much  better 
than  a  charm,  or  the  worship  of  the  Virgin  a 
very  great  improvement  upon  that  of  the  old 
tutelary  deity  of  the  valley.  Religion  gives 
birth  not  to  ennobling  art  but  to  ghastly  images 
of  a  morbid  asceticism;  but  the  Church  has 
probably  a  firmer  hold  on  the  minds  of  believers 
still  in  the  intellectual  stage  which  cherishes 
such  ideas,  and,  of  course,  they  had  better  remain 
in  it  as  long  as  may  be. 

When  staying  as  tourists  in  such  a  district,  we 
realise  the  vast  interval  by  which  we  are  removed 
from  the  minds  of  the  people.  We  talk  to  them 
as  we  might  talk  for  half  an  hour  to  some  mediae- 
val   ghost — just    long    enough    to    discover    that 


The  Baths  of  Santa  Catarina      237 

we  are,  as  it  were,  non-conducting  mediums  to 
each  other.  The  thought  which  should  be  con- 
veyed from  one  mind  across  the  electric  chain 
of  conversation  is  transformed  by  something 
more  than  actual  defects  of  language.  In  a 
sense  we  might  make  acquaintance  with  some 
of  the  natives;  we  might  know  how  many  cows 
they  kept,  at  what  time  they  rose  and  went  to 
bed,  and  what  they  had  for  dinner.  But  to 
know  anything  of  them — to  see  the  world  through 
their  eyes  and  understand  what  it  looks  like 
when  considered  as  centring  in  an  Italian  valley 
with  a  bathing  establishment,  two  or  three 
churches,  and  a  certain  number  of  bodies  and 
crucifixes,  as  the  main  objects  of  interest — 
was  of  course  impossible.  We  are  all  two-legged 
creatures  capable  of  consuming  beefsteak  or  po- 
lenta, and,  as  we  are  generally  told,  possessing 
a  certain  common  element  of  human  nature; 
but  between  varieties  of  the  same  species  in- 
distinguishable to  the  scientific  eye,  there  may 
be  an  invisible  wall  of  separation  sufficient  to 
intercept  any  real  exchange  of  sympathy.  Now 
that  we  are  separated  by  hundreds  of  miles 
from  the  Santa  Catarinians,  it  is  hard  to  think 
of  the  mountains  as  possessing  more  reality  than 
the  scenes  of  a  theatre,  or  of  the  peasants  as 
anything    but    the    supernumeraries    who    were 


238        The  Playground  of  Europe 

hired  to  put  on  appropriate  costumes  for  the 
occasion.  Perhaps  they  have  now  changed 
their  dresses  and  are  meeting  us  as  cabmen, 
beggars,  or  first,  second,  and  third  citizens  in 
London  streets.  At  any  rate  they  played  their 
parts  well,  and  acted  like  Arcadians  of  genuine 
kindliness  and  simplicity.  The  practice  of  heaving 
half  a  brick  at  the  head  of  a  stranger  would  be 
considered  as  decided  rudeness,  instead  of  an 
obvious  mode  of  extracting  amusement  from 
their  visitors.  One  would  rather  wonder  at 
the  natural  courtesy  which  they  displayed,  were 
it  not  that  it  is  only  in  certain  British  districts 
that  the  obvious  reply  to  "Good  day"  is,  "You 
be  damned." 

I  have  perhaps  strayed  rather  widely  from 
Santa  Catarina,  but  the  nature  of  the  population 
amongst  which  we  are  living  is,  after  all,  a  matter 
of  some  interest  even  to  the  most  superficial 
and  cursory  of  tourists— amongst  whom  I  reckon 
myself.  In  Switzerland  the  gulf  between  you 
and  your  fellow-men  wras  not  so  wide  originally 
and  has  been  more  nearly  filled  up.  The  Swiss, 
unlike  their  neighbours,  are  living  in  the  nine- 
teenth century.  They  have  travelled  on  rail- 
ways, they  understand  addition  and  subtraction, 
and  can  make  out  bills  to  perfection.  They 
have  some  notion  of  the  use  of  a  tub,  and  many 


The  Baths  of  Santa  Catarina      239 

of  them  dimly  perceive  that  the  ultimate  end 
of  a  man  is  to  climb  snow-peaks.  Moreover,  a 
kind  of  human  amalgam  has  been  formed  by 
the  steady  infiltration  of  British  tourists;  there 
are  guides,  innkeepers,  and  other  parasitical 
growths,  which,  it  must  be  admitted,  discharge 
many  useful  functions.  It  is  pleasant,  for  a 
change,  to  be  amongst  a  more  primitive  race 
and  to  be  able  to  introduce  into  the  background 
of  a  sketch  a  genuine  crucifix,  or  a  peasant  with 
some  remains  of  a  national  costume.  The  very 
contrast  of  national  characteristics  makes  such 
surroundings  agreeable  for  a  time,  and  our  Italian 
companions  were  agreeable,  from  the  rough 
shepherds,  who  had  brought  their  flocks  of  lop- 
eared  Roman-nosed  sheep  from  distant  valleys, 
up  to  the  intelligent  and  cultivated  gentleman 
who  studied  Mr.  Smiles 's  works,  and  quoted 
Byron  with  surprising  fluency.  To  him,  indeed, 
the  dead  bodies  would  probably  have  been  as 
amazing  phenomena  as  to  ourselves,  but  though 
the  higher  classes  approach  each  other  in  all 
civilised  countries,  his  ideas  were  yet  sufficiently 
different  from  our  own  to  make  a  contrast 
pleasant,  at  least  to  us. 

There  was,  indeed,  one  point  on  which  we  could 
all  agree.  It  was  desirable  to  see  something  of 
the  beauties  of  the  exquisite  scenery  around   us, 


240        The  Playground  of  Europe 

but  of  how  much  to  see,  and  how  to  see  it,  dif- 
ferent views  might  be  taken.  Travellers,  like 
plants,  may  be  divided  according  to  the  zones 
which  they  reach.  In  the  highest  region,  the 
English  climber — an  animal  whose  instincts  and 
peculiarities  are  pretty  well  known — is  by  far 
the  most  abundant  genus.  Lower  down  comes 
a  region  where  he  is  mixed  with  a  crowd  of  in- 
dustrious Germans,  and  a  few  sporadic  examples 
of  adventurous  ladies  and  determined  sightseers. 
Below  this  is  the  luxuriant  growth  of  the  domestic 
tourist  in  all  his  amazing  and  intricate  varieties. 
Each  of  them  may  flourish  at  Santa  Catarina, 
though  perhaps  it  is  best  adapted  for  the  middle 
class.  It  would  afford  ample  illustrations  to 
the  treatise  which  ought  to  be  written  on  the 
true  mode  of  enjoying  the  Alps.  One  amusement 
should  be  common  to  all ;  every  one  should  have 
days  devoted  to  mere  objectless  and  indolent 
loafing.  To  the  more  adventurous,  such  days 
offer  that  happiness  which  Dr.  Johnson's  friend 
discovered,  when  he  wished  to  be  a  Jew  in  order 
to  combine  the  pleasure  of  eating  pork  with  the 
excitement  of  sinning.  It  is  delightful  to  lie  on 
one's  back  on  a  glorious  day,  to  watch  the  gleam- 
ing snow-line  against  the  cloudless  sky,  and  to 
say,  If  I  were  doing  my  duty,  I  should  be  toiling 
up  a  slippery   ice   staircase   on  that  tremendous 


The  Baths  of  Santa  Catarina      241 

slope.  To  be  doing  nothing  when  every  muscle 
in  your  body  ought  to  be  at  its  utmost  strain, 
is  to  enjoy  a  most  delightful  sensation.  On 
such  occasions,  the  traveller  may  climb  the 
little  glen  through  which  two  streams  descend 
from  the  Confinale  to  join  the  Frodolfo  just 
opposite  the  Stabilimento.  At  a  height  of  some 
two  or  three  hundred  feet  may  be  found  delicious 
resting-places,  beneath  the  lowest  stragglers  from 
the  pine  forests  above.  The  sweet  smell  of  new- 
mown  hay  comes  to  you  from  the  surrounding 
meadow,  and  you  may  watch  the  peasants  toiling 
from  morn  till  night  shaving  the  Alp  as  close  as 
the  face  of  a  British  parson  in  the  diocese  of 
Rochester,  and  bearing  down  huge  burdens  on 
their  shoulders.  Or  you  may  go  to  the  industrious 
ant,  who,  it  is  true,  is  rather  too  abundant  on 
these  slopes,  and  give  thanks  that  you,  for  the 
time  being,  are  a  butterfly- — not  indeed  that  the 
butterfly  is  a  satisfactory  emblem,  for  he  is 
much  too  fussy  an  insect  to  enjoy  himself  properly, 
and  is  quite  incapable  of  lying  on  his  back  in 
the  sunshine.  The  Alpine  pig  which  roots  con- 
tentedly round  the  chalets,  whilst  the  goats  and 
cattle  are  climbing  the  steep  stony  ridges,  sets 
a  better  example;  or,  if  a  more  poetical  symbol 
be  required,  there  is  much  to  be  said  for  the 
lizard,  who  creeps  out  of  his  cranny  to  bask  in 


242       The  Playground  of  Europe 

the  sun,  and  retires  to  his  domestic  comforts 
when  the  light  disappears.  Resting  in  sublime 
indolence  you  may  admire  the  beauty  of  Alpine 
foregrounds.  What,  for  example,  is  more  perfect 
than  one  of  those  great  boulders,  that  have 
descended  into  quiet  valley  life  from  their  un- 
pleasant elevation  on  exposed  and  lofty  ridges? 
Every  ledge  is  enamelled  by  some  harmonious 
lichen.  The  miniature  caves  are  spread  with 
soft  beds  of  moss,  and  delicate  ferns  look  out 
from  unexpected  crannies.  Brilliant  flowers  (the 
names  of  every  one  of  which  are  entirely  unknown 
to  me)  supply  points  of  glowing  colour  along 
the  ridges  and  salient  angles,  and  some  graceful 
tree  manages  to  find  sufficient  nourishment  for 
its  roots,  and  rises  like  the  crest  of  a  helmet 
above  the  crag.  One  may  spend  a  lazy  hour 
in  tracing  out  the  beauties  of  the  diminutive 
terraces  and  slopes  of  these  charming  gardens, 
and  at  intervals  cast  one's  eyes  upwards  to  the 
great  peaks  that  look  down  upon  one  through 
the  forest  branches.  Rash  painters  who  try  to 
grapple  with  the  Alps  generally  make  an  im- 
possible sketch  of  some  imaginary  crag,  whose 
architecture  they  misunderstand,  and  whose 
colours  they  grossly  exaggerate,  and  then  put 
a  mist  and  an  imaginary  precipice  in  the  fore- 
ground to  exaggerate  the  apparent  height  of  their 


The  Baths  of  Santa  Catarina      243 

chimerical  monsters.  If  they  would  be  kind 
enough  for  once  to  paint  truly  some  of  the  lovely 
little  dells  which  travellers  pass  with  eyes  glued 
to  their  guide-books,  and  merely  throw  in  a 
mountain  as  a  subordinate  object,  they  would 
attempt  a  task  more  on  a  level  with  human 
powers,  they  would  give  a  truer  idea  of  some  of 
the  greatest  charms  of  the  scenery,  and  we  should 
hear  less  of  the  want  of  the  picturesque  in  Alpine 
scenery.  If  the  traveller  feels  slightly  more 
energetic,  he  may  climb  the  slopes  behind  the 
house,  and  hunt  for  strawberries  in  the  open 
glades  of  the  pine  forest,  or  a  little  higher,  where 
the  natives  have  ruthlessly  extirpated  the  trees 
and  left  their  decaying  stumps  to  form  admirable 
beds  for  the  most  delicious  of  fruits.  Or  he 
may  wander  through  lovely  woods  and  meadows 
to  the  glen  where  a  stream  from  the  Sovretta 
glacier  forms  a  waterfall  too  humble  to  be  an 
object  for  tourists,  but  singularly  picturesque 
when  it  comes  as  a  sudden  surprise.  Or  he  may 
follow  the  beautiful  gorge  which  gradually  rises 
from  the  level  of  Santa  Catarina,  to  the  foot  of 
the  Forno  glacier,  the  path  through  which  shows 
as  charming  a  variety  of  valley  scenery  as  is  to 
be  found  in  any  similar  walk  in  Switzerland. 
Or,  he  may  confine  himself  to  the  ordinary  post- 
prandial constitutional  of  the  bath  guests  along 


244       The  Playground  of  Europe 

the  road  to  Bormio.  Even  there,  every  turn  of 
the  valley  shows  a  new  beauty,  and  we  paused 
many  an  evening  to  admire  the  purple  shades 
of  the  distant  mountains  against  the  evening 
sky,  or  to  watch  for  the  strange  afterglow  which 
comes  out  on  the  Tresero  when  the  sunlight 
seems  to  have  died  away,  and  all  the  lower  region 
is  already  in  deep  starlight.  Wherever  he  wanders, 
that  graceful  summit  looks  down  upon  him  and 
seems  to  be  the  presiding  influence  of  the  district ; 
and  it  is  hard  to  say  at  what  hour  it  is  most 
graceful — whether  it  is  best  relieved  against  a 
group  of  chalets,  or  a  slope  of  Alpine  meadow, 
or  the  dark  shadows  of  the  pine  forest. 

But  these  are  humble  pleasures,  and  to  be 
enjoyed  in  their  measure  in  almost  every  district 
where  the  everlasting  snows  are  visible  from 
the  lower  country.  Let  us  rise  a  little  higher, 
and  in  the  first  place  say  a  few  words  on  that 
inevitable  sight,  without  which  no  gentleman's 
visit  can  be  complete.  I  have,  I  must  confess, 
always  admired  the  courage  which  enables  its 
possessor  to  set  the  established  code  of  sight- 
seers at  defiance — to  go  to  America  without 
seeing  the  falls  of  Niagara,  or  to  Rome  without 
seeing  St.  Peter's,  or  to  Jerusalem  without  seeing 
the  Holy  Sepulchre.  The  number  of  persons 
who  have  the  necessary  independence  of  character 


The  Baths  of  Santa  Catarina       245 

is  rare  indeed;  but  such,  and  only  such  persons, 
might  visit  Santa  Catarina  without  ascending 
the  Monte  Confinale.  When  I  speak  of  "persons," 
I  at  present  exclude  not  only  the  female  sex, 
in  defiance  of  Mr.  Mill,  but  most  foreigners  and 
all  Englishmen  with  less  than  two  legs.  When 
Santa  Catarina,  however,  is  a  little  more  known, 
the  proposition  will  be  true  though  a  wider 
sense  be  given  to  the  word.  There  are  at  present 
none  of  the  conveniences  which  would  make 
the  ascent  as  easy  as  any  of  the  recognised  centres 
of  Alpine  panorama;  yet  without  such  helps, 
an  Italian  lady  (of,  it  must  be  admitted,  unusual 
pedestrian  powers)  made  one  of  a  party  which 
I  accompanied,  and  the  path  lies  over  gently 
sloping  Alps,  succeeded  near  the  top  by  a  short 
slope  of  snow,  and  then  some  rocks,  easier  than 
those  of  the  Piz  Languard.  With  that  upstart 
peak  it  may  boldly  compare  itself.  True  it  is 
that  the  Languard  has  presumptuously  compared 
itself  of  late  years  with  the  Rigi,  the  Paulhorn, 
the  /Eggischhorn,  and  the  Gornergrat.  It  is 
high  time  that  such  audacity  should  be  nth- 
rebuked.  Its  one  claim  upon  public  favour  is 
founded  on  the  fact  that  a  large  number  of  peaks 
may  be  counted  from  its  summit;  but  it  is  just 
as  rational  to  decide  on  the  beauty  of  a  view 
bv   the   number  of   visible   mountains   as   on   the 


246        The  Playground  of  Europe 

merits  of  a  candidate  by  the  number  of  votes 
he  receives  under  household  suffrage.  It  raises 
a  certain  presumption  that  the  mountain  or  the 
candidate  can  make  a  noise  in  the  world,  but 
whether  he  be  of  genuine  merit  or  a  mere  charlatan 
is  an  open  question.  Now  the  Languard,  in  my 
opinion,  would  very  likely  catch  the  suffrages 
of  the  Tower  Hamlets,  but  would  scarcely  be 
fitted  to  represent  an  intelligent  constituency. 
It  is  deficient  in  the  essential  quality  of  a  grand 
foreground;  the  mountains  seen  from  it  are  not 
well  grouped;  and  though  I  admit  that  there  is 
something  striking  in  a  wilderness  of  peaks, 
countless  as  "the  leaves  in  Vallombrosa,"  there 
is  throughout  a  want  of  cohesion  and  concen- 
tration. In  this  respect,  the  Confinale  is  a  striking 
contrast,  and  is  a  good  example  of  a  rare  class 
of  views.  It  stands  approximately  at  the  centre 
of  a  gigantic  horseshoe  of  snow-clad  mountains, 
from  which  it  is  divided  by  a  deep  trench,  except 
at  the  point  where  a  low  isthmus  connects  it 
with  one  of  the  loftiest  summits  (the  Konigspitz), 
and  divides  the  waters  of  the  two  streams  at 
its  base.  Had  I  been  consulted  as  a  landscape 
gardener  on  the  laying  out  of  this  district,  I 
should  certainly  have  recommended  the  complete 
omission  of  the  Confinale,  and  substituted  for 
it  a  level  plain  or  perhaps  a  lake.     Its  site  would 


The  Baths  of  Santa  Catarina      247 

then  have  formed,  as  it  were,  the  pit  of  a  mighty- 
theatre  some  five  and  twenty  miles  in  circum- 
ference; the  huge  mountain  crescent  occupying 
the  place  of  the  boxes  and  galleries.  As,  for 
obvious  reasons,  my  advice  was  not  asked,  the 
visitor  must  be  contented  with  the  present  ar- 
rangement, and  imagine  himself  elevated  on  a 
lofty  rostrum  in  the  centre  of  the  pit,  but  still 
far  below  the  galleries.  On  his  left  hand  a  long 
wall  of  tremendous  black  cliffs  (strongly  re- 
sembling those  of  the  Gasternthal  near  the 
Gemmi)  sinks  into  the  wild  valley  of  the  Zebru, 
inhabited  only  in  the  summer  months  by  a  few 
herdsmen.  Above  this  wall,  at  some  distance, 
towers  the  massive  block  of  the  Ortler  Spitz, 
cleaving  the  air  with  its  sharp  final  crest.  About 
the  centre  of  the  crescent,  in  front  of  the  spec- 
tator, the  ridge  culminates  in  the  noble  Konig- 
spitz,  falling  on  this  side  in  a  sheer  cliff  towards 
the  valley.  The  mighty  precipices  of  this  segment 
of  the  crescent,  through  which  one  or  two  huge 
glaciers  have  hewn  deep  trenches  towards  the 
valley,  are  well  contrasted  with  the  graceful 
undulations  of  the  long  snow-slopes  and  streaming 
glaciers  which  clothe  the  ridges  to  the  right.  The 
ever  beautiful  Tresero  marks  an  interruption 
to  the  wall,  where  a  lateral  valley  comes  in  from 
the  south,   but  it   is  continued   in  the  lonir  swell 


248        The  Playground  of  Europe 

of  the  Sovretta.  This  half  of  the  semicircle  is 
divided  from  the  Confinale  by  the  green  valley 
of  the  Frodolfo,  into  which  the  eye  plunges  for 
some  thousand  feet,  though  not  quite  far  enough 
to  catch  sight  of  the  baths  which  nestle  at  the 
bottom  of  the  gorge.  There  are  nobler  moun- 
tains, steeper  cliffs,  and  vaster  glaciers  elsewhere, 
but  it  would  be  hard  to  find  any  point  from 
which  the  sternness  and  sweetness  of  the  High 
Alps  are  more  skilfully  contrasted  and  combined. 
From  the  top  of  yonder  parapets,  not  forty,  but 
(say)  forty  thousand  ages  look  down  upon  you; 
and  the  scarred  and  crumbling  parapets  seem 
well  placed  to  guard  the  quiet  pasturages  above 
which  they  tower.  It  may  remind  one  of  the 
inaccessible  ridge  that  surrounded  the  mythical 
Abyssinian  valley  of  Rasselas;  and  involuntarily 
I  used  to  quote  a  fragment  from  Mr.  Kingsley's 
ballad  describing  old  Athanaric's  sensations  on 
looking. at  the  walls  of  Constantinople: 

Quoth  the  Bait,  Who  would  leap  that  garden  wall 
King  Sivrid's  boots  must  own! 

The  Alpine  Club  have  perhaps  found  King  Siv- 
rid's boots,  and  Rasselas  would  be  able  to  leave 
his  valley  by  the  excellent  road  of  the  Stelvio; 
but  to  enjoy  an  Alpine  view  properly,  one  should 
at  times  be  dreamy  and  sentimental,  and  believe 


The  Baths  of  Santa  Catarina      249 

in  the  inaccessible.     Of  one  half  of  the  view  I 
have  yet  said  nothing;    and  it  will  be  enough  to 
say   that,    turning    round    and    looking    between 
the  horns  of  the  crescent,  there  appears  a  tumbled 
sea  of  mountains  and  valleys,  in  which  the  Bernina 
chain  is  conspicuous.     I  do  not  attempt  to  say 
what  is  or  is  not  in  sight,  for  three  reasons:   first, 
I   don't   care;    secondly,    I   am   sure  the   reader 
doesn't  care;  and  thirdly,   I  don't  know.     But 
if  the  spectator  is  lucky  enough  not  to  have  a 
clear  day,  he  may  enjoy  some  such  view  as  that 
at   which   I   wondered.      Vast   snowstorms   were 
sweeping   across   the   sky,   casting   many   square 
leagues   at  a  time  into  profound   shadow,   with 
broad    intervening   stretches    of    sunshine.      The 
solid    mountains,    under   the    varying   effects    of 
light  and  shade,  seemed  to  melt,  and  form,  and 
melt  again;    and  it  was  impossible  to  recognise 
particular    points    without    minute    local    know- 
ledge.    At  every  instant  some  new  ridge  seemed 
to  start  into  existence,  and  then  to  be  blotted 
out  or  sink  into  a  plain.     It  is  a  strange  sight 
to    see    mountains    resemble   the    changing    sea- 
waves:    and  yet,  if  geologists  speak  truth,  it  is 
only  what  we  should  sec,  if  we  could  live  a  little 
slower,  and  consider  a  million  years  or  so  as  a 
single  day.     Meanwhile  it  is  just  as  well  for  us 
that  these  freaks  are  nothing  but  the  effects  of 


250        The  Playground  of  Europe 

fancy,  and  that  the  Confinale  is,  for  practical 
purposes,  as  firm  as  the  Monument — or,  indeed, 
rather  firmer.  Yet  I  have  still  a  faint  wish  that 
it  could  be  levelled,  and  the  interior  of  that 
mighty  crescent  be  converted  into  a  level  park. 
There  would  really  be  nothing  like  it  in  Europe, 
and  there  would  be  some  admirable  locations 
for  monster  hotels  and  casinos.  Perhaps  the 
Americans  will  set  about  it,  when  these  effete 
countries  are  annexed  to  the  United  States. 

Once  more,  and  only  once  more,  I  must  invite 
my  reader  to  yet  a  further  effort.  I  confess — 
for  it  would  be  useless  to  conceal — that  I  am 
a  fanatic.  I  believe  that  the  ascent  of  moun- 
tains forms  an  essential  chapter  in  the  complete 
duty  of  man,  and  that  it  is  wrong  to  leave  any 
district  without  setting  foot  on  its  highest  peak. 
In  this  chapter  I  will  endeavour  for  once  to  keep 
clear  of  snow-slopes  and  step-cutting,  of  ropes 
and  crevasses,  and  even  of  the  inevitable  de- 
scription of  an  Alpine  meal.  But  I  cannot,  in 
common  decency,  leave  Santa  Catarina  before 
paying  my  respects  to  the  monarch  of  the  district, 
the  noble  Konigspitz.  Long  had  that  peak 
haunted  my  dreams,  and  beckoned  to  me  when- 
ever I  had  climbed  above  the  lower  slopes  of  the 
valley.  I  head  treated  the  complaint  homceo- 
pathically,    by    an    ascent    of   the   Tresero;     but 


The  Baths  of  Santa  Catarina      251 

my  appetite  was  whetted  instead  of  satiated. 
I  had  distracted  my  attention  by  various  long, 
solitary  rambles  up  some  of  the  minor  peaks. 
There  is  this  great  advantage  about  walking 
without  guides- — namely,  that  it  is  easy  to  get 
into  real  difficulties  on  places  where  it  would 
be  apparently  impossible  to  do  so  on  the  ordinary 
system.  Thus,  for  example,  on  the  Sovretta 
there  is  only  one  cliff  on  the  mountain  where 
anything  like  a  scramble  is  conceivable,  and 
that  cliff  is  perfectly  easy  to  cross  except  after 
a  fresh  fall  of  snow.  It  is  entirely  out  of  the 
way  of  any  sensible  route  to  anywhere.  But 
by  abstaining  from  guides  I  succeeded  in  placing 
myself  on  the  face  of  this  cliff  the  morning  after 
a  heavy  snowfall,  and  had  two  hours  of  keen 
excitement  in  a  climb  which  was  ultimately 
successful.  By  pursuing  this  system  courage- 
ously, a  traveller  may  discover  difficulties  and 
dangers  on  the  Rigi  or  the  Brevcnt;  and,  if  he 
be  careless  and  inexperienced,  may  even  manage 
a  serious  accident  in  either  of  those  places.  I 
felt,  however,  that  though  a  pleasant  substitute, 
this  was  not  quite  the  real  thing.  I  was  too  much 
like  the  sportsman  reduced  by  adverse  circum- 
stances from  tiger-hunting  to  rabbit-shooting; 
and  when  the  Konigspitz  renewed  its  invitation, 
one  lovely  afternoon,  I   could  not   find   it  in  mv 


2^2 


The  Playground  of  Europe 


heart  to  refuse,  and  made  an  appointment  for 
the  next  morning  at  2  a.m.  And  here,  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  pledge  just  given,  I  omit  a 
thrilling  description.  The  reader  may  fancy 
precipices  covered  with  treacherous  rock,  giddy 
slopes  of  ice,  yawning  crevasses,  or  any  com- 
bination of  terrors  taken  at  random  from  Peaks, 
Passes,  and  Glaciers,  or  the  year-books  of  Alpine 
Clubs.  It  is  enough  to  say,  that  with  the  help 
of  a  good  guide  (one  Pietro  Compagnoni,  whom 
I  hereby  commend  to  Alpine  climbers),  I  found 
myself,  about  half-past  nine,  enjoying  a  strangely 
impressive  view.  It  is  easy  enough  to  describe 
what  I  saw;  but  the  mischief  is  that  I  was  chiefly 
impressed  by  what  I  did  not  see;  and  herein 
lies  one  great  difficulty  of  the  descriptive  traveller. 
He  can  draw  some  rough  outline  of  the  picture 
photographed  on  his  mind's  eye,  but  how  is  he 
to  reproduce  the  terrors  of  the  unseen,  which 
were  probably  the  most  potent  elements  in  the 
total  effect  produced?  Here,  for  example,  I 
was  standing  on  the  highest  point  of  the  Konig- 
spitz;  a  few  yards  of  tolerably  level  snow-ridge 
were  distinctly  visible;  I  could  easily  picture  to 
myself  the  steep  icy  staircase  by  which  I  had 
climbed  to  it  from  the  top  of  a  lower  precipice; 
but,  looking  upwards,  or  in  any  direction  hori- 
zontally, nothing  met  the  eye  but  a  blank  wall 


The  Baths  of  Santa  Catarina      253 

of  mist.  On  cither  side  1  could  sec  slopes  of 
snow  or  rock  descending  with  apparent  frightful 
steepness  for  a  few  feet,  and  then,  once  more, 
that  blank  misty  wall.  I  knew  not  what  gulfs 
might  have  been  revealed  if  the  mists  had  sud- 
denly lifted,  or  what  grand  form  of  cliff  or  moun- 
tain spire  might  have  shaped  itself  out  of  the 
background.  In  short,  I  saw  little  more  than 
might  be  observed  in  a  thick  mist  on  a  snowy 
day  on  the  top  of  Snowdon  or  Helvellyn;  and 
yet  I  count  that  the  mountain  tops  which  I 
have  visited  under  such  circumstances  have  not 
been  the  least  impressive  of  my  acquaintance. 
It  is  a  secret  of  good  art  to  leave  something  to 
the  imagination;  and  I  had  quite  enough  ma- 
terials to  work  with.  I  knew  how  steep  and 
slippery  was  the  path  which  had  led  to  this 
mid-aerial  perch;  and  the  precipices  which  I 
saw  on  every  side  plunging  furiously  downwards 
must  be  far  steeper  than  those  by  which  I  had 
ascended.  Suppose  I  had  suddenly  cut  the  rope, 
and  pushed  Compagnoni  over  the  edge — I  could 
realise  only  too  vividly  the  plunge  which  he 
would  take  into  the  lower  regions,  the  terrible 
acceleration  of  his  pace,  and  the  fearful  blows, 
at  increasing  intervals,  against  the  icy  ribs  of 
the  mountain.  It  is  an  amusing  and  instructive 
experiment,    if    you    have    a    weak-nerved    com- 


254        The  Playground  of  Europe 

panion,  to  throw  down  a  large  stone  under  such 
circumstances;  and  if  by  any  ingenious  man- 
oeuvre you  can  give  him  the  impression  that  it 
is  one  of  the  party,  the  effect  is  considerably 
heightened.  The  hollow  sound  of  the  blows 
coming  up,  fainter  and  fainter,  from  the  invisible 
chasm  beneath  naturally  enables  one  to  realise 
the  course  which  one's  own  body  would  follow, 
and  renders  the  cliff,  as  it  were,  audible  instead 
of  visible.  By  such  dallying  with  danger,  one 
learns  to  appreciate  the  real  majesty  of  an  Alpine 
cliff.  There  are  various  delusions  of  perspective 
which  on  a  bright  day  sometimes  diminish  the 
apparent  height  of  a  precipice;  but  when  it  is 
robed  in  mysterious  darkness,  and  only  some 
such  dim  intimations  as  the  sound  of  a  falling 
stone  come  up  to  stimulate  your  curiosity,  it  is 
your  own  fault  if  you  do  not  make  it  the  most 
terrible  of  cliffs  that  ever  tried  the  steadiness 
of  a  mountaineer's  head.  I  confess,  indeed,  that 
the  Konigspitz  was  too  thickly  shrouded  on 
the  day  of  which  I  speak;  it  would  have  been 
still  more  majestic  had  its  robes  been  parted 
at  intervals,  so  as  to  give  artistic  revelations  of 
its  massive  proportions.  Yet  it  is  worth  re- 
marking that  nothing  helps  more  to  give  a  certain 
mysterious  charm  to  the  mountains  than  an 
occasional  ramble  through  their  recesses  in  bad 


The  Baths  of  Santa  Catarina      255 

weather;  it  is  only  a  half-hearted  lover  of  their 
scenery  who  would  pray  for  a  constant  succession 
of  unclouded  skies.  Could  such  a  prayer  be 
granted,  the  mountain  which  was  its  victim 
would  be  as  tiresome  as  a  thoroughly  good- 
tempered  man — that  is,  it  would  be  on  the 
highroad  to  become  a  bore. 

We  left  Santa  Catarina  by  the  Stelvio,  and 
halted  for  a  day  or  two  at  the  charming  little 
village  of  Trafoi.  Trafoi  is  undoubtedly  more 
lovely  than  Santa  Catarina,  and  indeed  may 
rank  with  the  most  perfect  of  Alpine  centres. 
Accordingly,  certain  sceptical  doubts  beset  me 
for  a  time  as  to  the  charms  of  the  district  I  have 
endeavoured  to  describe.  Had  we  really  been 
comfortable  or  well-fed?  Was  our  admiration 
genuine,  or  more  or  less  due  to  affectation?  The 
first  discoverers  of  a  new  district  are  always 
unduly  eulogistic,  because  praising  it  is  indirectly 
praising  themselves.  Might  we  not  have  been 
giving  way  in  some  degree  to  that  common 
weakness?  These  unpleasant  doubts  have  grad- 
ually given  way  to  a  settled  faith.  I  am  far 
from  declaring  that  a  belief  in  the  inimitable 
glories  of  Santa  Catarina  is  an  essential  part  of 
the  true  mountaineer's  creed.  Still  more  should 
I  shrink  from  condemning  to  everlasting  ex- 
clusion   from    that    little    paradise    any    one:    who 


256        The  Playground  of  Europe 

might  take  a  lower  view  of  its  merits  than  I  do. 
He  would  be  wrong,  but  I  doubt  whether  his 
error  wTould  be  of  so  deep  a  dye  as  to  be  neces- 
sarily criminal.  I  would  speak  to  him  if  I  met 
him  in  the  streets,  especially  in  London.  Indeed, 
heresy  in  Alpine  matters  is  not  always  so  un- 
pardonable as  appears  at  first  sight.  No  one 
can  appreciate  good  scenery  when  his  digestion 
is  out  of  order;  few  people  can  appreciate  it 
with  blisters  on  their  feet,  and  not  every  one 
who  is  bitten  of  fleas.  Therefore,  if  a  person 
who  has  visited  any  Alpine  district  under  such 
disadvantages  ventures  to  differ  from  me,  I 
am  frequently  inclined  to  forgive  him.  One 
of  the  evils  I  have  mentioned  is,  I  fear,  for  the 
present,  almost  inseparable  from  Santa  Catarina, 
and  so  far  heretics  may  put  forward  a  plea  of 
some  value;  but  if  any  one  provided  with  a 
good  bottle  of  insecticide,  and  otherwise  in  health 
and  spirits,  should  deny  the  charms  of  Santa 
Catarina,  I  consider  him  as  beyond  the  pale  of 
the  true  faith,  and  liable  to  the  consequences 
of  such  a  position,  whatever  they  may  be.  The 
only  piece  of  advice  I  shall  give  him  is,  to  stay 
away,  that  there  may  be  the  more  room  for 
orthodox  believers. 


CHAPTER  X 


THE   PEAKS  OF  PRIMIERO 


At  some  distant  period,  when  the  Alpine  Club 
is  half  forgotten,  and  its  early  records  are  obscured 
amongst  the  mist  of  legends  and  popular  traditions, 
there  is  one  great  puzzle  in  store  for  the  critical 
inquirer.  As  he  tries  to  disentangle  truth  from 
fiction,  and  to  ascertain  what  is  the  small  nucleus 
of  fact  round  which  so  many  incredible  stories 
have  gathered,  he  will  be  specially  perplexed 
by  the  constant  recurrence  of  one  name.  In  the 
heroic  cycle  of  Alpine  adventure,  the  irrepressible 
Tuckett  will  occupy  a  place  similar  to  that  of  the 
wandering  Ulysses  in  Greek  fable,  or  the  invulner- 
able Sivrid  in  the  lay  of  the  Niebelungs.  In  every 
part  of  the  Alps,  from  Monte  Viso  and  Dauphine 
to  the  wilds  of  Carinthia  and  Styria,  the  exploits 
of  this  mighty  traveller  will  linger  in  the  popular 
imagination.  In  one  valley  the  peasant  will  point 
to  some  vast  breach  in  the  everlasting  rocks,  hewn, 
as  his  fancy  will  declare,  by  the  sweep  of  the  mighty 
ice-axe  of  the  hero.  In  another,  the  sharp  coni- 
cal  summit,   known   as  the   Tuckettspitz,  will   be 


258        The  Playground  of  Europe 

regarded  as  a  monument  raised  by  the  eponymous 
giant,  or  possibly  as  the  tombstone  piled  above 
his  athletic  remains.  In  a  third  the  broken  masses 
of  a  descending  glacier  will  fairly  represent  the 
staircase  which  he  built  in  order  to  scale  a  previously 
inaccessible  height.  That  a  person  so  ubiquitous, 
and  distinguished  everywhere  by  such  romantic 
exploits,  should  have  been  a  mere  creature  of 
flesh  and  blood  will,  of  course,  be  rejected  as  an 
absurd  hypothesis.  Critics  will  rather  be  disposed 
to  trace  in  him  one  more  example  of  that  universal 
myth  whose  recurrence  in  divers  forms  proves, 
amongst  other  things,  the  unity  of  the  great  Aryan 
race.  Tuckett,  it  will  be  announced,  is  no  other 
than  the  sun,  which  appears  at  earliest  dawn  above 
the  tops  of  the  loftiest  mountains,  gilds  the  sum- 
mits of  the  most  inaccessible  peaks,  penetrates  the 
remotest  valleys,  and  passes  in  an  incredibly 
short  space  of  time  from  one  extremity  of  the 
Alpine  chain  to  the  other. 

Fortunately,  the  Alpine  Club  well  knows  that 
Air.  Tuckett  is  a  flesh  and  blood  reality — no  empty 
phantom  of  the  imagination,  but  a  being  capable 
of  consuming  even  Alpine  food  and  being  consumed 
by  Alpine  insects.  Possibly,  like  Sivrid  or  Achilles, 
he  may  have  one  vulnerable  point,  though  I  am 
pretty  sure  that  it  is  not  his  heel ;  but  if  it  exists,  it 
has  not  yet  been  betrayed  to  his  followers.     When, 


The  Peaks  of  Primiero  259 

therefore,  I  read  in  that  great  collection  of  tacts 
and  stories  founded,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  on  facts — 
Mr.  Ball's  Guide  to  the  Alps  —  that  the  mighty 
Tuckett  himself,  and  the  equally  mighty  Melchior 
Anderegg,  had  pronounced  the  peaks  of  Primiero 
to  be  inaccessible,  there  came  to  me  something 
of  the  thrill  felt  by 

Some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken, 
Or  like  stout  Cortes,  when  with  eagle  eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific,  and  all  his  men 
Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise, 
Silent  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 

I  stood  silent  before  the  peaks  of  Primiero,  and 
saw  in  them  a  new  land,  still  untouched  by  the 
foot  of  the  tourist,  and  opening  vast  possibilities 
of  daring  adventure  and  deathless  fame  for  some 
hero  of  the  future.  To  me,  alas !  those  possibilities 
were  closed.  I  was  alone  (at  6.45  a.  m.  on  a  bril- 
liant morning  of  August,  1869)  in  the  quiet  street 
of  the  lovely  little  town  of  Primiero.  I  was 
prepared  indeed  for  a  day's  mountaineering,  but 
a  day  how  unlike  to  those  when,  with  alpenstock 
in  hand  and  knapsack  on  back,  with  a  little  corps 
of  faithful  guides  and  tried  companions,  I  had 
moved  out  to  the  attack  of  some  hitherto  un- 
conquered  peak!  Ik-fore  me,  indeed,  lay  moun- 
tains most  exciting  to  the  imagination.    Above  the 


260       The  Playground  of  Europe 

meadows  of  the  Primiero  valley  there  rises  a  long 
slope,  first  of  forest  and  then  of  Alp,  to  the  foot 
of  the  mighty  peaks  which  spring  at  one  bound 
to  a  height  of  some  ten  thousand  feet.  The  two 
conspicuous  summits  in  front  are  called  the  Sas 
Maor,  and  resemble,  if  I  may  be  pardoned  so 
vulgar  a  comparison,  the  raised  ringer  and  thumb 
of  a  more  than  gigantic  hand.  Behind  them,  I 
knew,  lay  a  wilderness  of  partially  explored  sum- 
mits, with  sides  as  steep  as  those  of  a  cathedral, 
and  surrounded  by  daring  spires  and  pinnacles, 
writhing  into  every  conceivable  shape,  and  almost 
too  fantastical  to  be  beautiful.  Mr.  Tuckett  had 
made  two  passes  through  their  intricate  valleys 
and  ridges;  yet  even  Mr.  Tuckett  had  shrunk, 
as  I  have  said,  from  an  attempt  to  reach  their 
loftiest  points.  The  Dolomites  are  the  fairy- 
land of  the  Alps.  All  visitors  to  Botzen  know 
the  strange  rocky  walls  that  guard  the  Rose 
garden  of  the  goblin  King  Laurin ;  and  the  domin- 
ion of  the  same  monarch  probably  extends  through- 
out these  most  interesting  valleys.  The  Primiero 
peaks  seem  to  have  a  double  measure  of  enchant- 
ment; some  strange  magic  had  held  the  Alpine 
Club  at  a  distance,  and,  what  was  more  provoking, 
had  cast  a  profound  drowsiness  over  the  dwellers 
at  their  feet,  and  almost  prevented  them  from 
raising  their  eyes  to  these  wild  summits,  or  be- 


The  Peaks  of  Primiero  261 

stowing  names  upon  them.  Yet  I  could  not 
flatter  myself  that  I  should  be  the  first  to  break 
the  charm  or  to  plant  my  feet  on  those  daring 
peaks  which  had  remained  undisturbed  since  they 
first  rose,  by  some  strangely  mysterious  process, 
to  break  the  softer  scenery  around  them.  I  had 
a  Spanish  wine-bottle  slung  round  me,  a  crust  of 
bread  in  my  pocket,  and  an  axe  in  my  hand;  but 
alone,  and  determined  to  come  back  in  one  piece, 
I  could  only  hope  to  open  a  path  for  more  daring 
adventurers,  and,  like  a  church  spire,  to  point  to 
Paradise  without  attempting  to  lead  the  way. 
The  present  chapter,  therefore,  must  be  prefaced 
with  a  warning  to  true  mountaineers  that  they 
must  expect  from  it  no  records  of  thrilling  ad- 
venture, and  that  I  shall  not  even  assert  (for  the 
perhaps  insufficient  reason  that  it  is  not  true) 
that  at  any  given  point  a  false  step  might  have 
broken  my  neck. 

My  way  led  at  first  along  a  good  road,  to  the 
foot  of  the  Castle  of  La  Pietra.  I  cannot  imagine 
a  more  enviable  dwelling-place  for  a  baron  of  a  few 
centuries  back.  From  his  rocky  fortress  he  looked 
down  upon  the  little  village  lying  at  his  feet,  and, 
having  the  power  of  life  and  death  over  its  in- 
habitants, was  doubtless  regarded  with  universal 
respect.  The  most  practicable  road  into  this 
secluded    country    lav    immediately    beneath    his 


262        The  Playground  of  Europe 

walls,  and  must  have  enabled  him  conveniently 
to  raise  such  duties  as  were  compatible  with  the 
commercial  theories  of  the  epoch;  that  is,  he 
could  take  whatever  he  liked.  The  rock  is  so 
precipitous  that  a  few  landslips  have  rendered  it 
literally  inaccessible  without  the  use  of  ladders. 
But  the  most  eligible  part  of  the  estate  (to  use  the 
dialect  of  auctioneers)  must  have  been  the  lovely 
little  side  valley,  the  entrance  to  the  col,  which 
was  covered  by  the  castle.  This  valley,  called 
the  Val  di  Canale,  stretches  north-eastward  into 
the  heart  of  the  mountains.  The  stream  which 
waters  it,  sparkling  with  the  incomparable  bril- 
liancy characteristic  of  the  Dolomite  regions, 
flows  through  a  level  plain  of  the  greenest  turf 
dotted  with  occasional  clumps  and  groves  of 
pines  that  have  strayed  downwards  from  the 
bounding  slopes.  In  the  comparison  between 
mountainous  and  lowland  countries,  it  is  an  ob- 
vious advantage  to  the  former — though  I  do  not 
remember  to  have  seen  it  noticed — that  it  is  only 
amongst  the  mountains  that  you  can  properly 
appreciate  a  plain.  Such  a  meadow  as  that  I 
was  crossing  would  have  been  simply  a  common- 
place pasturage  in  Leicestershire.  Contrasting 
it  with  the  mighty  cliffs  that  enclosed  it  on  every 
side,  it  was  a  piece  of  embodied  poetry.  Nature 
had    been    a    most    effective   landscape    gardener, 


The  Peaks  of  Primiero  263 

and  had  even  laid  out  for  the  benefit  of  the  lords 
of  the  Castle  of  La  Pietra  a  kind  of  glorified  park. 
I  apologise  for  the  expression.  I  have,  indeed, 
heard  true  British  lips  declare  that  one  of  the 
loveliest  bits  of  Alpine  scenery  was  really  parklike, 
and  serenely  condescend  to  flatter  the  mountains 
by  comparing  them  to  the  deadly  dulness  of  the 
grounds  that  surround  a  first-class  family  mansion 
in  our  respectable  island.  Here,  however,  there 
was  undoubtedly  a  faint  resemblance ;  only  it  was 
such  a  park  as  we  may  hope  to  meet  in  the  Elysian 
fields ;  a  park  as  much  like  its  British  representative 
as  an  angel  is  like  a  country  gentleman.  The  differ- 
ence la)' principally  in  the  system  of  fences  adopt- 
ed in  the  two  cases.  Here  it  was  formed  by  one 
of  those  gigantic  walls  which  almost  oppress  the 
imagination  by  their  stupendous  massiveness. 
I  was  evidently  contemplating  one  of  the  great 
scenic  effects  of  the  Alps,  not,  to  my  taste,  rivalling 
Grindelwald,  Macugnaga,  or  Courmayeur,  but 
yet  in  its  own  style  almost  unique.  The  huge 
barrier  before  me  was  the  defence  of  that  fairy- 
land into  which  1  was  seeking  entrance.  The 
cliffs  rose  abruptly  and  with  tremendous  steepness, 
though  their  bases  were  joined  to  the  valley  by 
long  slopes  of  debris  that  had  accumulated  in 
countless  ages.  It  is  impossible  to  paint  such 
scenery   in   words,   or  to  give  any  notion   of  the 


264       The  Playground  of  Europe 

force  with  which  the  bare  rocks,  a  deadly  grey 
in  some  places,  and  tinged  in  others  with  the 
ruddy  hue  common  in  the  Dolomites,  contrasted 
with  the  rich  Italian  vegetation  at  their  feet. 
The  only  comparison  I  can  think  of  is  somewhat 
derogatory  to  their  dignity.  However,  one  can 
hardly  be  called  responsible  for  the  strange  freaks 
played  in  one's  mind  by  queer  associations  of 
ideas.  For  reasons  which  would  be  too  long  to 
explain,  I  can  never  look  at  crevasses  of  a  certain 
character  without  being  reminded  of  the  meal 
called  five  o'clock  tea ;  and  it  was  certainly  a  closer 
analogy  which  on  this  occasion  suggested  to  me 
the  picture  of  a  gigantic  raised  pie,  such  as  some- 
times completes  the  circuit  of  a  table  before  any 
audacious  guest  makes  an  inroad  into  its  contents. 
At  last  appetite  gets  the  better  of  modesty:  a 
sacrilegious  hand  is  raised,  and  a  few  bold  gashes 
with  the  knife  make  terrible  rents  into  its  solid 
sides,  and  heap  piles  of  ruined  paste  in  the  dish 
below.  Even  so  had  some  mysterious  agent 
sliced  and  hacked  the  great  Dolomite  wall,  and 
though  the  barrier  still  rose  as  proudly  as  ever 
along  a  great  part  of  the  line,  there  were  deep 
trenches  and  gullies  hewn  through  it  at  various 
places,  masses  had  evidently  given  way  at  some 
distant  period,  and  others  were  apparently  threat- 
ening to  follow  them.     I  was  still  in  utter  darkness 


The  Peaks  of  Primiero  265 

as  to  the  geography  of  the  district,  but  on  reflection 
I  thought  it  best  to  enter  the  broadest  and  most 
accessible  of  these  gashes,  which  lay  immediately 
behind  the  Sas  Maor,  and  is  known  as  the  Val  di 
Pravitali.  It  was  what  would  be  called  a  ghyll 
in  the  English  lakes,  that  is,  a  steep  lateral  gorge 
enclosed  by  precipitous  rocks  on  each  side,  and 
it  appeared  to  terminate  at  a  distinctly  marked 
col,  from  which  there  would  probably  be  a  descent 
to  the  other  fork  of  the  Primiero  valley.  By 
following  this  route  I  should  at  least  pass  through 
the  very  heart  of  the  mountains. 

My  climb  was  interesting  from  the  strangeness 
of  the  scenery,  but  not  in  any  sense  difficult.  The 
Dolomite  rocks  have  this  disadvantage,  that  the 
debris  is  generally  formed  of  small  hard  pebbles 
of  dazzling  whiteness,  from  which  the  water  drains 
off  rapidly,  and  which  have  therefore  little  power 
of  cohesion.  The  foot  rests  on  a  bed  of  loose 
stones,  which  in  other  formations  would  give 
firm  hold,  but  which  here  crumbles  away,  to  the 
imminent  risk  of  your  equilibrium.  Not  a  drop 
of  water  is  to  be  had;  the  sun  strikes  down  with 
tremendous  force,  and  its  rays  are  reflected  with 
almost  unabated  power  from  the  blinding  stones. 
In  the  gully  which  I  was  speedily  climbing  there 
was  not  a  breath  of  air.  1  was  in  good  training, 
but  without  the  stimulating  effect  of  company. 


266        The  Playground  of  Europe 

Great  as  is  the  charm  of  solitary  walks  on  due 
occasion,    they   produce   a   severe    strain   on    the 
moral    energies.       Why,    it    has    been    asked    by 
certain  assailants  of  utilitarian  heresies,  should  a 
man  do  right  when  there  is  no  chance  of  his  being 
found  out?     Why  should  not  the  true  Benthamite 
pick  pockets,  or  knock  his  friend  on  the  head,  if 
the  penitentiary  and  the  gallows  are  out  of  the 
question?     Most  victoriously  had  I  refuted  that 
sneer,  or  so  I  fancied,  when  living  in  London  with 
a  policeman  round  the  corner.     But  now,  in  the 
deep  solitude  of  the  Alps,  it  recurred  to  me  with 
great  force,  and  I  felt  inclined  to  accept  the  other 
horn  of  the  dilemma.     Why  not  break  the  moun- 
taineer's code  of  commandments?     Why  not  sit 
down  in  the  first  bit  of  shade,  to  smoke  my  pipe 
and  admire  the  beauties  of  nature?     The  tempter 
did  not  reveal  himself  to  me  in  bodily  form  as  in 
that  charming  story   told   in  the    notes  to   Guy 
Mannering,   but   I    developed   a    fearful    skill    in 
sophistical    argumentation,    which    supplied    the 
place  of  any  external  deceiver,  and  for  a  moment 
was  in  danger  of  lapsing  into  the  fearful  heresies 
in  things  Alpine  which  are  popular  amongst  the 
fat  and  the  lazy.     I  struggled,  however,  against 
the  meshes  of  false  reasoning  which  seemed  to  be 
winding  themselves  tangibly  round  my  legs,  and 
1  oiled  slowly  upwards.     I  raised  my  feet  slowly 


The  Peaks  of  Primiero  267 

and  sleepily;  I  groaned  at  the  round,  smooth, 
slippery  pebbles,  and  lamented  the  absence  of 
water.  At  length  I  reached  a  little  patch  of  snow, 
and  managed  to  slake  my  parched  lips  and  once  more 
to  toil  more  actively  upwards.  A  huge  boulder, 
in  colour  and  form  resembling  a  gigantic  snow-ball, 
filled  up  the  gully,  and  gave  me  a  little  amuse- 
ment in  surmounting  it.  A  few  minutes  more  and 
I  entered  a  very  remarkable  grassy  plain,  of  which 
I  shall  again  have  occasion  to  speak,  and  after 
about  five  hours'  walk  from  Primiero,  sat  down 
on  the  col  I  have  mentioned  to  determine  my 
future  course.  Here  I  was  in  the  position  of  that 
celebrated  gentleman  who  could  not  see  the  town 
on  account  of  the  houses.  I  was  fairly  perplexed 
and  bewildered.  On  every  side  there  were  gigan- 
tic cliffs,  soaring  pinnacles,  and  precipitous  ravines. 
They  rose  so  abruptly,  and  apparently  in  such 
wild  confusion,  all  perspective  was  so  hopelessly 
distorted,  that  I  was  totally  unable  to  get  my 
bearings.  The  fantastic  Dolomite  mountains 
towered  all  around  me  in  shapes  more  like  dreams 
than  sober  realities;  they  recall  quaint  Eastern 
architecture,  whose  daring  pinnacles  derive  their 
charm  from  a  studied  defiance  of  the  sober  princi- 
ples of  stability.  The  Chamouni  aiguilles,  as  I 
have  said,  inevitably  remind  one  of  Gothic  ca- 
thedrals; but  in  their  most  daring  moments  they 


268        The  Playground  of  Europe 

appear  to  be  massive,  immovable,  and  eternal. 
The  Dolomites  are  strange  adventurous  experi- 
ments, which  one  can  scarcely  believe  to  be  formed 
of  ordinary  rock.  They  would  have  been  a  fit 
background  for  the  garden  of  Kubla  Khan ;  there 
are  strange  romantic  chasms  where  "Alph  the 
sacred  river"  might  plunge  into  "caverns  mea- 
sureless to  man";  while  at  times  I  found  myself 
looking  out  instinctively  for  the  strange  valley 
where  Sinbad  collected  his  heaps  of  diamonds. 
Indeed,  I  am  half  inclined  to  think  that  I  found  it, 
as  shall  be  presently  told ;  at  any  rate,  as  I  looked 
upwards  at  the  strange  walls  around  me,  I  was 
thoroughly  bewildered  with  their  intricacies,  and 
by  the  singular  change  wrought  in  them  by  the 
new  perspective. 

I  was  at  the  foot  of  the  promised  peaks — nay,  I 
might  be  halfway  up  them,  but  I  could  not  even 
guess  which  was  the  right  line  of  assault,  and  in 
which  direction  the  main  summits  lay.  I  might 
descend  the  ravine  which  I  saw  plunging  rapidly 
downwards  amongst  the  roots  of  the  mountains 
on  the  other  side  of  the  col,  but  by  such  a  course 
I  should  see  no  more  than  I  had  hitherto  observed. 
After  some  reflection  and  hesitation  it  became 
obvious  that  the  single  fact  on  which  I  could  con- 
fidently rely  was  that  the  great  mass  of  rock  to 
the  south,  on  my  left  hand,  must  intervene  between 


The  Peaks  of  Primiero  269 

me  and  the  valley  of  Primiero.  If  it  were  possible 
to  climb  it,  I  should  get  a  more  distinct  view  of 
the  mountains  to  the  north,  and  might  possibly 
find  a  short  cut  home  across  the  ridge.  With  this 
plan  I  commenced  operations  by  climbing  a  long 
snow-slope  which  was  luckily  in  fair  order.  I 
ascended  rapidly,  cutting  a  step  or  two  in  one 
place,  and,  on  reaching  the  head  of  the  snow,  I 
took  to  the  ridge  of  rocks  at  a  point  where  a  very 
remarkable  pinnacle  of  great  height  rises  into  a 
shape  which  a  fanciful  traveller  may  compare 
to  a  bayonet  with  the  point  bent  over  to  one  side. 
The  rocks,  though  apparently  difficult  at  a  distance, 
turned  out  on  closer  approach  to  be  excellently 
adapted  to  my  purpose.  I  topped  the  ridge,  and 
bearing  to  my  left  forced  my  way  along  it  in  spite 
of  one  or  two  gaps  which  for  a  moment  threatened 
my  advance.  It  was  growing  late,  and  I  had  reason 
to  suppose  that  my  absence,  if  much  prolonged, 
might  cause  some  anxiety  to  those  I  had  left 
at  Primiero.  I  resolved  that  I  would  turn  back 
under  any  circumstances  at  2.30,  but  I  made 
strenuous  efforts  to  be  as  far  advanced  as  possible 
at  the  fatal  hour.  My  energy  was  rewarded. 
With  still  a  minute  or  two  to  spare,  I  stood  upon 
the  top  of  the  mountain — of  what  mountain  I  could 
not  possibly  say.  Had  I  been  an  artist,  I  should 
have  instantly  sat  down,  in  spite  of  my  hurry,  to 


270       The  Playground  of  Europe 

make  some  sort  of  outline  of  the  view  which  pre- 
sented itself.  As  it  was,  I  drained  the  last  drops 
of  my  wine-flask,  ate  my  last  crust  of  bread,  and 
endeavoured  to  make  a  mental  photograph  of  the 
scene  before  me  as  rapidly  as  possible.  To  the 
north  rose  the  great  mass  of  peaks  at  whose  feet 
I  had  been  clambering  for  hours.  In  every  di- 
rection they  presented  fearfully  steep  cliffs,  and, 
with  the  exception  of  a  single  glacier  of  trifling 
dimensions,  scarcely  one  patch  of  snow.  The 
summit  upon  which  I  was  standing  was  part  of 
the  great  ridge  from  which  rise  the  singular 
peaks  of  the  Sas  Maor.  I  was  divided  from  them 
by  a  deep  cleft,  and,  so  far  as  I  could  judge,  was 
at  a  point  about  intermediate  in  height  between 
those  astonishing  twins.  More  singular  towers  of 
rock  are  scarcely  to  be  found  in  the  Alps.  At  the 
time,  I  compared  the  ridge  before  me  to  some 
monstrous  reef  stretching  out  to  seaward,  with  a 
singularly  daring  lighthouse  erected  on  a  distant 
point,  or  rather,  if  such  a  thing  could  be  imagined, 
growing  spontaneously  out  of  the  rock  and  bend- 
ing over  as  it  rose.  Or  perhaps  a  more  perfect 
likeness  might  be  found  to  the  head  of  some  great 
monster  extended  at  full  length,  and  armed  with 
a  couple  of  curved  horns  like  those  of  the  double- 
homed  rhinoceros.  The  monster  was  covered 
with  all  manner  of  singular  excrescences,  spines 


The  Peaks  of  Primiero  271 

and  knobs  growing  out  of  his  stony  hide;  amidst 
which  these  two  singular  elevations  towered  in 
daring  disregard  of  the  laws  of  equilibrium.  One 
could  hardly  believe  that  rock  would  shape  itself 
into  such  strange  forms,  and  that  there  was  not 
some  kind  of  muscular  fibre  to  weave  them  into 
comparative  firmness.  1  looked  at  them  with  a 
strong  sense  of  wonder,  though,  to  confess  the 
truth,  with  a  belief  that  somebody  might  possibly 
discover  a  route  to  the  loftier  of  the  two  from  the 
deep  trench  which  divided  them  from  me. 

And  here,  more  than  anywhere  else,  the  spells 
of  King  Laurin,  or  the  mysterious  monarch,  what- 
ever may  be  his  name,  who  rules  these  enchanted 
districts,  seemed  to  become  almost  tangible. 
The  absolute  solitude  was  doubtless  favourable 
to  their  effectual  working.  Bentley,  in  one  of 
his  slashing  corrections  of  Milton,  proposed  to 
substitute  the  "sacred"  for  the  "secret  top  of 
Horeb  or  of  Sinai,"  for  the  reason  that  the  top 
of  a  mountain  is  of  all  places  the  least  "secret " 
or  private.  De  Quincey  remarks  upon  this  that 
"no  secrecy  is  so  complete  and  so  undisturbed 
by  sound  or  gaze  from  below  as  that  of  a  mountain- 
top,  such  as  Helvellyn,  Great  Gavel,  or  Blen- 
cathra."  The  truth  lies  in  the  combination  of 
these  views.  The  mountain  solitude  is  so  intense 
because  the  mountains  are,  in   one  sense,  so  far 


272        The  Playground  of  Europe 

from  secret.  You  may  be  as  solitary  in  the  centre 
of  a  wood  or  a  plain,  but  you  cannot  realise  your 
isolation  so  distinctly.  It  is  because  the  meadows 
and  inhabited  places  are  apparently  within  the 
cast  of  a  pebble,  that  the  great  gulf  between  you 
and  them  becomes  emphatic.  You  know  that  you 
might  fall,  for  example,  from  the  summit  of  a 
cliff,  upon  which  a  hundred  sightseers  are  gazing 
at  the  time,  and  yet  they  would  be  unaware  that 
a  tragedy  was  being  performed  before  their  eyes. 
Solitude  in  a  crowd  is  supposed  to  be  the  worst 
kind  of  solitude ;  but  perhaps  the  most  impressive 
is  the  solitude  on  a  point  visible  and  familiar  to 
half  a  nation.  The  ordinary  accompaniments  of 
such  a  scene,  the  gossip  of  guides  and  the  noisy 
triumph  of  a  successful  party,  are  apt  to  break 
the  charm;  and  indeed  I  remember,  with 
something  like  a  sense  of  shame,  how  on  one  of 
the  loftiest  peaks  of  Switzerland  I  spent  the  pre- 
cious moments  in  having  my  trousers  mended  by  a 
guide,  who  happened  to  be  also  a  tailor.  Romance 
was  of  course  out  of  the  question  under  such  cir- 
cumstances. Here,  on  this  strange  desolate  crag, 
I  was  exposed  without  interruption  to  the  magic 
of  the  scenery.  Far  along  the  horizon  rose  the 
mysterious  peaks— not  arranged,  like  mountains 
of  mere  ordinary  flesh  and  blood,  along  a  respecta- 
ble   watershed,  with    glaciers    symmetrically    ar- 


The  Peaks  of  Primiero  273 

ranged  upon  their  flanks,  and  some  regard  for 
geographical  propriety — but  dispersed  in  pictur- 
esque confusion  like  the  spires  of  a  mediaeval 
town.  The  Dolomite  country  appears  to  me  to 
be  properly  speaking  a  hill,  rather  than  a  moun- 
tain, district — a  region  of  green  meadows  and 
sparkling  waters.  These  great  masses  of  bare 
discoloured  rock  have  somehow  been  intruded  by 
diabolical  art — I  mean  no  offence  by  the  epithet, 
for  the  devil,  if  we  may  judge  by  his  dykes  and 
punch-bowls  even  in  England,  has  had  great 
success  as  a  landscape  gardener — and,  in  short, 
seem  to  be  mountains  bewitched  rather  than 
mountains  due  to  the  ordinary  forces  of  upheaval 
and  erosion. 

The  strangest  part  of  all  the  scenery  around  me 
was  the  valley  to  which  I  have  already  referred 
as  accessible  through  the  Val  di  Pravitali,  and 
which  was  now  some  2000  or  3000  feet  beneath 
me.  It  is  well  worth  a  visit  from  Primiero  and 
may  be  easily  reached  in  four  or  five  hours'  walking. 
Imagine  a  vast  cauldron,  bounded  by  cliffs  some 
3000  feet  in  height.  To  the  north,  indeed,  there 
is  a  gradual  ascent  to  a  wild  and  extensive  plateau, 
whence  a  small  glacier  trickles  into  the  desolate 
valley.  On  the  east  towers  the  tremendous  wall 
of  the  Palledi  S.  Martino,  vertical  to  all  appearance 
if  not  to  the  eye  of  a  geologist.      It  is  scarred  and 


274       The  Playground  of  Europe 

gashed  by  some  of  the  characteristic  gullies  of 
the  Dolomite  mountains.  Some  of  them  might 
be  climbed  for  a  distance,  or  a  path  may  even  lie 
through  their  hidden  depths  to  the  summit  of 
the  mountain,  but  they  appear  at  any  rate  to  be 
closed  by  the  most  forbidding  of  rocky  walls.  Op- 
posite to  the  Palle  is  a  precisely  similar  wall  formed 
by  a  nameless  outlier  of  the  Fradusta.  To  the 
south  rise  the  more  varied  but  equally  precipitous 
pinnacles  and  rock  towers  of  the  Sas  Maor.  A 
single  narrow  gap  leaves  room  for  the  escape  of 
the  torrent  of  the  Val  di  Pravitali.  When  I  passed, 
however,  the  torrent  was  dry;  and,  indeed,  the 
utter  absence  of  water  is  one  of  the  characteristic 
peculiarities  of  these  mountains.  The  ordinary 
music  of  the  streams,  which  relieves  some  of  the 
wildest  Alpine  gorges,  was  absolutely  mute.  Not 
a  sound  was  to  be  heard,  and  I  felt  almost  too 
superstitious  to  try  to  raise  an  echo  with  my  voice, 
lest  I  should  receive  a  ghostly  answer  in  return. 
The  valley  floor  is  nearly  level,  except  where  it 
is  concealed  by  heaps  of  debris  from  the  neigh- 
bouring peaks,  and  its  surface  is  very  dry  and 
barren,  except  in  one  place  where  the  melting 
snows  must  occasionally  form  a  lake.  A  more 
savage  piece  of  rock  scenery  is  nowhere  to  be  seen. 
No  undulating  snow-field  or  bounding  torrent  of 
i/lacier    breaks    the    tremendous    monotonv.     In 


The  Peaks  of  Pri micro 


/b 


every  direction  blank  walls  or  daring  spires  of 
rock  close  yon  in  as  it  were  in  a  gigantic  dungeon. 
Philosophers  may  explain  how  such  places  are 
made;  but  doubtless  it  was  in  some  distant  period 
the  keep  of  the  old  goblin  king.  He  was,  if  I  am 
not  mistaken,  a  potentate  of  bad  character,  and 
kept  up  intimate  relations  with  the  personage 
whose  taste  in  matters  of  scenery  has  just  been 
noticed.  His  residence  has  the  appearance  of 
having  been  blasted  by  a  supernatural  curse  which 
marks  the  former  abode  of  witches  and  evil  spirits. 
The  poor  old  women  who  had  dealings  with  the 
evil  one  in  Germany  had  to  content  themselves 
with  a  hillock  like  the  Brocken ;  but  that  part  of 
the  female  population  of  Primiero  which  still 
takes  an  occasional  ride  on  a  broomstick — and 
I  am  convinced  from  appearances  that  there 
are  a  good  number  of  them — gathers  in  all  prob- 
ability in  this  wild  amphitheatre  where  the  walls 
are  gleaming  in  the  moonlight  or  curtained  by 
strange  wreaths  of  curling  mist.  Another  fancy 
came  into  my  head,  as  I  have  already  hinted, 
though  I  admit  that  there  are  some  geographical 
objections.  Nothing  could  be  more  like  the 
wonderful  valley  in  which  Sinbad  found  the  di- 
amonds and  where  he  had  to  be  carried  by  the 
eagles.  True,  there  arc  now  neither  serpents  nor 
diamonds.     But  it  is  hard  to  doubt  that  the  old 


276       The  Playground  of  Europe 

dragon  brood  inhabited  one  of  the  ghastly  chasms 
in  the  rocks  before  the  cave  died  out,  and  Sinbad 
may  well  have  been  speaking  of  them.  As  for  the 
diamonds,  I  have  always  thought  that  part  of 
the  story  too  good  to  be  true.  One  other  suspi- 
cious circumstance  about  these  mountains  im- 
pressed me  forcibly.  Never  did  I  see  hills  change 
their  shapes  so  rapidly,  in  all  varieties  of  weather. 
The  beauty  of  the  Sas  Maor  induced  me — though 
no  artist — to  try  to  make  an  outline  of  their 
singular  forms.  I  lay  under  a  chestnut-tree  in  a 
lovely  meadow  at  Primiero  through  a  hot  summer 
afternoon,  and  watched  the  strange  transformation 
of  the  cliffs.  They  would  not  remain  steady  for 
five  minutes  together.  What  looked  like  a  chasm 
suddenly  changed  into  a  ridge;  plain  surfaces  of 
rock  suddenly  shaped  themselves  into  towering 
pinnacles;  and  then  the  pinnacles  melted  away 
and  left  a  ravine  or  a  cavern.  The  singular 
shifting  phantasmagoria  reminded  me  of  the 
mystical  castle  in  the  Vale  of  St.  John ;  and  it 
required  a  heartless  scepticism  to  believe  that  the 
only  witchcraft  at  work  was  that  of  the  sun,  as  it 
threw  varying  lights  and  shadows  over  the  intri- 
cate labyrinths  of  the  rocks. 

Whatever  goblin  haunts  these  cliffs  and  be- 
wilders the  judgment  of  the  traveller  I  must  do 
him  the  justice  to  say  that  he  is  tolerably  pro- 


The  Peaks  of  Primiero  277 

pitious  to  the  climber.  The  rocks  shoot  out  un- 
expected knobs  and  projections  to  help  one  at  a 
pinch.  Even  where  they  were  most  apparently 
threatening,  a  nearer  inspection  revealed  abundant 
crannies  and  cracks  where  it  was  easy  to  obtain 
very  good  hold  for  hands  and  feet.  If  I  had  lim- 
ited my  reflections  to  the  question  of  ascending 
the  Sas  Maor,  I  should  have  simply  returned  by 
the  way  I  came.  Another  plan,  however,  occurred 
to  me  with  irresistible  force.  The  rocks  were  so 
good  that  I  inferred  the  possibility  of  descending 
straight  to  the  Primiero  valley,  i.e.,  by  the  opposite 
ridge  of  the  mountain  to  that  which  I  had  climbed. 
All  my  life  I  have  suffered  from  an  invincible  love 
of  short  cuts.  Short  cuts  to  learning,  as  moralists 
tell  us,  end  in  general  ignorance;  short  cuts  to 
wealth,  in  Pentonville  Penitentiary;  short  cuts  to 
political  glory,  in  Leicester  Square;  and  short  cuts 
in  mountain  districts  to  a  destiny  not  less  dis- 
agreeable than  any  of  these  —  namely,  to  the 
nearest  churchyard.  However,  I  yielded  to  the 
overpowering  impulse.  Prom  my  lofty  perch 
I  could  see  the  Primiero  valley  in  its  whole  length, 
lying  almost  at  my  feet.  If  the  ridge  which 
descended  straight  towards  it  proved,  as  I  thought 
the  rocks  indicated,  to  be  easily  practicable,  I 
might  reach  the  valley  in  a  very  short  time,  and 
save  the  trouble  of  descending  the  tiresome  Val 


278        The  Playground  of  Europe 

di  Pravitali.  Time  was  limited,  and  after  one 
final  glance,  I  committed  myself  to  the  ridge. 
This  ridge,  I  must  explain,  lies  between  two  deep 
trenches;  that  which  I  have  already  noticed  as 
dividing  me  from  the  Sas  Maor  looked  the  more 
promising,  if  I  could  but  effect  a  descent  into  it; 
and,  after  a  short  climb,  the  sight  of  a  few  sheep 
which  had  evidently  strayed  up  toward  the  ridge 
from  the  valley  satisfied  me  that  there  must  be  a 
practicable  route.  Unluckily  my  impatience  led 
me  to  violate  that  useful  canon  of  mountaineering 
science  which  prescribes  the  duty  of  keeping  to 
the  backbone  of  a  difficult  ridge  rather  than 
descending  by  the  ribs.  Tempted  by  an  appar- 
ently easy  route,  I  made  a  diversion  towards  the 
valley,  and,  after  some  complicated  scramblings, 
found  myself  at  the  edge  of  some  tremendous 
cliffs,  invisible  from  above,  but,  so  far  as  I  could 
see,  impassable.  There  is  a  pleasure  in  these 
accidental  discoveries  which  is  some  reward  to 
the  guideless  traveller  for  his  unnecessary  wander- 
ings. I  was  probably  the  first  person  who  ever 
reached  a  place  which  is  totally  out  of  the  proper 
route  from  any  given  point  to  any  other,  and  it  is 
probable  enough  that  my  performance  may  never 
be  repeated.  I  might  therefore  flatter  myself 
that  I  alone  of  the  human  race  can  enjoy  the 
memory  of  one  particular  view — not,   it  is  true, 


The  Peaks  of  Primiero  279 

more  striking  in  itself  than  many  other  views, 
but  having  the  incalculable  merit  of  being  in  a 
sense  my  own  personal  property.  At  such  places, 
too,  one  feels  the  true  mountain  charm  of  solitude. 
If  my  grasp  had  suddenly  given  way  as  I  was 
craning  over  those  ghastly  crags,  I  should  have 
been  consigned  to  a  grave  far  wilder  than  that 
"in  the  arms  of  Helvellyn,"  and  which  might  as 
likely  as  not  remain  undiscovered  till  there  was 
little  left  to  reward  the  discoverer.  A  skeleton, 
a  few  rags,  the  tattered  relics  of  certain  more 
coherent  rags  which  just  passed  themselves  off 
for  clothes  at  Primiero,  and  perhaps  the  mangled 
remains  of  a  watch  and  an  ice-axe,  would  hardly 
be  worth  the  trouble  of  a  prolonged  search.  These 
cheerful  reflections  passed  through  my  mind,  and 
added  considerably  to  the  influence  of  the  strangely 
wild  scenery.  They  also  helped  to  recall  me  to 
the  propriety  of  finding  my  way  home,  with  a 
skeleton  still  decently  apparelled  in  flesh  and  blood 
— to  say  nothing  of  Mr.  Carter's  boots.  Before 
long  I  had  returned  to  my  ridge,  and  was  fighting 
my  way  downwards.  It  was  an  amusing  bit 
of  climbing  until,  just  above  the  point  which  I 
had  marked  as  offering  an  easy  descent  to  the 
valley,  I  was  interrupted  by  a  sudden  wall  of 
rock.  It  is  an  unpleasant  peculiarity  of  the 
Dolomite    mountains  that   such   vertical  walls   of 


280        The  Playground  of  Europe 

rock,  which  of  course  are  invisible  from  above, 
frequently  run  for  great  distances  around  the  base 
of  the  peaks.  I  had  the  unpleasant  prospect  of 
being  forced  to  return  once  more  to  the  summit  of 
the  mountain,  as  the  only  known  line  of  retreat; 
in  which  case  I  must  probably  have  spent  the 
night  upon  the  rocks.  As  certain  persons  then 
at  Primiero  took  a  lively  interest  in  my  safety, 
and  would  probably  put  the  worst  interpretation 
on  my  absence,  I  looked  round  eagerly  for  a 
mode  of  escape.  I  managed  at  one  point  to 
creep  so  far  downwards  that  if  mattresses  had 
been  spread  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff,  I  could  have 
dropped  without  fear;  but  the  rocks  were  hard  as 
iron,  and  moreover,  while  I  was  not  quite  certain 
that  the  point  thus  attainable  was  really  beyond 
the  cliff,  I  was  quite  certain  that  I  could  not  climb 
back.  To  be  imprisoned  on  such  a  ledge  would 
be  no  joke.  A  more  circuitous  route  gave  me  a 
better  chance,  but  required  some  gymnastics. 
At  one  point,  as  I  was  letting  myself  carefully 
down,  a  pointed  angle  of  rock  made  a  vicious 
clutch  at  the  seat  of  my  trousers,  and,  fatally 
interfering  with  my  equilibrium,  caused  me  to  grasp 
a  projecting  knob  with  my  right  hand  and  let  my 
ice-axe  fall.  With  a  single  bound  it  sprang  down 
the  cliff,  but  to  my  pleasure  lodged  in  a  rocky 
chasm  some  hundred  and  fifty  feet  below  me.     In 


The  Peaks  of  Primiero  281 

regaining  it  I  had  some  real  difficulty.  I  was 
forced  to  wriggle  along  a  steep  slope  of  rock  where 
my  whole  weight  rested  on  the  end  joints  of  my 
fingers  inserted  into  certain  pock-marks  charac- 
teristic of  this  variety  of  rock,  and,  to  be  candid, 
partly  upon  my  stomach.  This  last  support 
gives  very  efficient  aid  on  such  occasions.  Just 
beyond  this  place  I  had  to  perform  the  novel 
manoeuvre  of  passing  through  the  rock.  A  na- 
tural tunnel  gave  me  a  sudden  means  of  escape 
from  what  appeared  to  be  really  a  difficult  place. 
But,  alas!  what  is  the  use  of  such  descriptions? 
How  can  I  hope  to  persuade  anybody  that  I  en- 
countered any  real  difficulties? — the  next  traveller 
who  climbs  these  rocks  will  laugh  at  the  imbe- 
cile middle-aged  gentleman  who  managed  to  get 
into  trouble  amongst  them,  and,  to  say  the  truth, 
the  troubles  were  of  no  great  account.  With  an 
active  guide  to  hold  out  a  hand  above,  and  an- 
other to  supply  a  prop  below,  I  might  have 
skipped  over  these  difficulties  like  the  proverbial 
chamois.  As  it  was,  I  reflected  that  whatever 
modes  of  progression  I  adopted,  there  would  be 
no  one  to  criticise;  and,  taking  good  care  to  adopt 
the  safest,  I  speedily  rejoined  my  ice-axe,  and 
stood  at  a  kind  of  depression  in  the  ridge,  from 
which,  as  I  had  anticipated,  there  would  be  an 
easy  descent   to   the   pastures   below.      I    was    in 


282        The  Playground  of  Europe 

fact  at  the  point  where  I  had  already  seen  the 
sheep;  and  it  would  be  unworthy  of  an  Alpine 
traveller  to  describe  a  route  already  traversed 
by  such  unadventurous  animals.  All  that  I 
need  say  for  the  benefit  of  my  successors  is  this. 
The  valley  by  which  I  ultimately  effected  my 
descent  is  that  which  descends  from  the  col  be- 
tween the  Sas  Maor  and  the  peak  (to  the 
north-west)  which  I  had  just  climbed.  The  only 
difficulty  in  finding  a  route  lies  in  the  circum- 
stance that  the  valley  is  broken  by  certain  walls  of 
rock  which  divide  it  into  terraces  at  different  eleva- 
tions. It  is  rather  difficult  for  one  coming  from 
above  to  discover  the  proper  line.  I  wasted  some 
precious  time  by  following  sheep-tracks,  under 
the  impression  that  they  led  downwards  instead 
of  upwards.  The  route,  however,  will  easily  be 
struck  out  by  reaching  the  valley  as  near  its  head 
as  possible,  and  then  keeping  downwards  by  the 
left  bank  of  the  stream,  or  rather  watercourse. 
I  ultimately  reached  Primiero  soon  after  dark, 
having  had  an  interesting  twelve  hours'  walk. 

Primiero  is  situated,  geographically  speaking, 
on  the  head  waters  of  the  Cismone,  a  tributary  of 
the  Brenta.  It  lies,  however,  to  be  more  precise, 
at  a  distance  of  some  thousand  miles,  more  or 
less,  and  two  or  three  centuries  from  railways 
and  civilisation.     I   fear  that  both   in  time  and 


The  Peaks  of  Primiero  28 


3 


space  it  is  rapidly  making  up  its  leeway.  Though 
many  of  the  inhabitants  told  us  that  they  had 
never  ventured  beyond  their  valley,  others  have 
pushed  their  audacity  so  far  as  to  pay  a 
visit  to  Botzen.  Nay,  reform  has  progressed  to 
the  pitch  indicated  by  the  possession  of  a  bit 
of  carriage-road.  Two  or  three  ardent  leaders  of 
the  party  of  progress  go  so  far  as  recklessly  to 
advocate  the  connection  of  this  road  with  others 
already  constructed  upon  the  opposite  side  of  the 
mountains.  The  conservatives  who  cling  to  pa- 
triarchal modes  of  life  dread  the  opening  which 
would  thus  be  made  for  the  corrupt  influences  of 
civilisation.  The  innkeeper,  in  other  respects  a 
most  deserving  man,  has,  I  fear,  prepared  for  the 
anticipated  influx  of  travellers  by  raising  his 
scale  of  prices.  It  will  be  long,  however,  before 
the  more  solid  inhabitants  will  yield  to  the  spirit 
of  innovation.  The  fat  old  shopkeeper  will  con- 
tinue, it  may  be  hoped,  to  sit  intensely  in  the  door 
of  his  shop  smoking  those  tough  cigars  that  can 
only  be  kept  alight  for  a  few  seconds  by  energetic 
action  of  the  lungs;  he  will  read  his  queer  little 
printed  news-sheet  of  a  month  or  two  back,  and 
will  resent  the  intrusion  of  customers  who  would 
disturb  his  profound  repose;  the  peasants  will 
gather  on  Sundays  to  strike  a  huge  ball  about  the 
streets  anrl  into  the  windows  of  the  loftiest  houses; 


284       The  Playground  of  Europe 

the  women  will  kneel  reverently  on  the  pavement 
outside  the  church,  and  keep  an  eye  on  the  pass- 
ing stranger,  whilst  they  diligently  tell  their  beads ; 
and  in  the  winter  evenings  there  will  be  friendly 
gatherings  to  spin  the  long-grown  fleeces  of  the 
queer  lop-eared  sheep.  There  is  something  about 
these  animals  that  has  an  inexpressible  attraction 
for  me.  As  a  rule,  I  prefer  the  more  lively  goat ; 
and  surely  the  prettiest  of  all  Alpine  scenes  is 
the  return  of  the  little  herd  to  the  village  when 
the  evening  bells  are  ringing,  and  each  goat, 
after  a  few  inquisitive  excursions  into  odd  corners, 
to  see  whether  any  change  has  taken  place  in 
its  absence,  betakes  itself  with  a  few  dogmatic 
wags  of  its  beard  to  the  bosom  of  its  family. 
Primiero,  however,  was  just  then  filled  with  flocks 
of  sheep  returning  from  the  high  pasturages. 
They  looked  so  tired  and  sleepy,  and  were  evi- 
dently on  such  friendly  terms  with  the  ragged 
shepherds  who  led  them,  that  it  was  impossible 
not  to  regard  them  as  setting  the  tone  of  the 
country.  I  had  many  talks  with  them  on  the 
hills,  and  they  explained  to  me  with  much  sense 
the  proper  mode  of  enjoying  the  scenery.  To 
lounge  about  in  the  rich  pasturages  when  the 
weather  is  fresh,  to  climb  the  rocks  when  the  sun 
is  hot  and  creep  into  cool  shadowy  ledges,  and 
to  gather  for  a  pleasant  chat  in  the  evenings  is 


The  Peaks  of  Primiero 


-°5 


their  mode  of  passing  the  long  vacation.  They 
disapprove  of  the  restless  goats,  who  are  fitter 
for  the  bracing  air  of  the  northern  Alps,  and 
Primiero  seems  to  agree  with  them.  There  was, 
indeed,  a  certain  amount  of  activity  perceptible, 
especially  amongst  the  women,  who  were  inces- 
santly mangling  hemp  (I  don't  know  whether 
that  is  the  proper  term)  in  the  village  street. 
But  the  male  population  is  distinctly  of  a  placid 
temperament.  They  don't  excite  themselves 
about  news.  The  story  of  the  siege  of  Paris 
would  probably  be  fresh  to  them  when  the  first 
tourists  arrived  in  the  following  summer.  They 
care  little,  as  may  be  supposed,  even  for  their 
own  mountains,  and  the  doings  of  the  few  climb- 
ers who  had  disturbed  their  repose  seemed  to 
have  excited  no  interest.  Nobody  knew  or  cared 
anything  about  my  little  expedition,  and  I  began 
to  fancy  that  there  was  something  almost  pro- 
fane about  troubling  these  placid  regions  with 
mv    scrambling    propensities.  Luckily    I    was 

roused  by  a  very  pleasant  meeting  with  the  most 
omniscient  of  mountaineers.  Mr.  Ball  joined 
us  at  Primiero,  and  I  laid  certain  geographical 
perplexities  before  him,  as  the  best  possible 
authority.  What,  in  the  first  place,  could  be 
the  name  of  the  pcrik  I  had  climbed?  Even 
Mr.   Ball  did    not    know,  and    the    cause    of    his 


286       The  Playground  of  Europe 

ignorance  was  speedily  explained  by  an  intelligent 
native.  The  fact  was  that  the  peak  had  no 
name  at  all.  But  as  our  friend  explained,  Herr 
Suda,  who,  if  I  mistake  not,  held  an  official  posi- 
tion in  some  way  connected  with  the  Government 
survey,  had  proposed  to  the  editor  of  the  map 
to  bestow  a  name  upon  it;  and  that  name,  as  I 
heard  with  great  satisfaction,  was  the  Cima  di 
Ball.  I  sincerely  hope  that  the  name  will  be 
adopted.  Yet  I  cannot  say  that  it  is  in  all  re- 
spects appropriate.  The  mountain,  it  is  true, 
has  many  merits,  and  amongst  them  the  rather 
questionable  merit  of  a  retiring  modesty.  Of 
no  mountain  that  I  have  ever  seen  of  the  same 
importance  in  a  range  is  it  so  difficult  to  obtain 
a  view.  When  it  appears,  it  has  a  vexatious 
habit  of  looking  lower  than  it  is,  and,  still  more 
provokingly,  of  passing  itself  off  as  the  mere 
hanger-on  of  some  peak  of  really  inferior  merits. 
Moreover,  like  the  conversation  of  some  of  my 
acquaintance,  it  is  totally  deficient  in  point,  and 
meanders  carelessly  away  until  it  may  be  said 
rather  to  leave  off  than  to  culminate.  Its  top 
is  a  rambling  plateau,  which  cannot  quite  make 
up  its  mind  to  act  like  the  summit  of  a  respect- 
able mountain,  and  nobody  had  even  erected  a 
cairn  upon  it  previous  to  my  arrival,  when  I  threw 
up  a  hasty  heap  of  stones.     Yet  it  is  distinctly  a 


The  Peaks  of  Primiero  287 

summit,  cut  off  by  deep  and  wide  depressions 
from  all  its  rivals,  and,  moreover,  it  has  one  merit 
which  may  make  it  less  unworthy  to  be  called 
after  Mr.  Ball.  By  its  assistance,  as  by  that  of 
its  godfather,  1  was  aide  to  gain  a  considerable 
insight  into  the  geography  of  the  district;  and 
though  I  decline  to  enter  into  this  rather  dreary 
subject,  I  may  say  shortly  that  I  was  prompted 
by  his  remarks  to  one  further  expedition. 

On  this  occasion  it  was  determined  by  the 
higher  powers  that  I  should  not  be  trusted  alone. 
A  guide  was  to  be  entrusted  with  the  duty  of 
keeping  me  to  safe  places,  and  repressing  any 
tendency  to  short  cuts.  The  person  designated 
for  this  duty  by  universal  consent  was  one  Colesel 
Rosso.  Colesel  is  very  poor  and  very  deserving; 
he  is  willing,  exceedingly  cheerful,  full  of  con- 
versation — which  I  regret  to  say  was  imperfectly 
intelligible  to  his  companion, — a  good  walker, 
and  a  mighty  bearer  of  weights.  In  short,  he 
has  every  virtue  that  a  guide  can  have  consistently 
with  a  total  and  profound  ignorance  of  the  whole 
theory  and  practice  of  mountain  climbing.  When 
I  first  saw  him,  1  confess  that,  in  spite  of  previous 
warning,  I  was  struck  with  amazement.  It  was 
little  that  his  height  was  not  above  4  feet  6  inches, 
and  that  his  general  appearance  might  suggest 
that    I   was  taking  with  me  an   animated   scare- 


288        The  Playground  of  Europe 

crow  to  frighten  the  eagles  of  the  crags.  His 
small  stature  and  wizened  face  had  a  strong 
resemblance  to  the  features  of  good-humoured 
goblins,  though  he  was  little  enough  at  home  in 
the  ranges  haunted  by  his  fellows.  Colesel,  I 
suspect,  had  been  assigned  to  me  out  of  charity, 
on  the  ground  that  he  was  one  of  the  poorest 
men  in  a  district  where  the  people  generally  seem 
to  enjoy  a  fair  degree  of  comfort.  Although  this 
principle  is  scarcely  compatible  with  sound  views 
of  political  economy,  I  was  glad  enough  to  give 
my  companion  a  good  turn.  But  I  was  rather 
more  startled  by  observing  that  he  held  in  his 
hand  a  shillalah  in  place  of  an  ice-axe,  thereby 
increasing  his  general  resemblance  to  a  good- 
tempered  Paddy  rather  more  than  usually  out  at 
elbows;  and  that  he  regarded  my  rope  and  axe 
with  undissembled  wonder.  It  has  so  rarely  hap- 
pened to  me  to  walk  with  any  Alpine  peasant 
who  could  not  easily  beat  me  at  every  kind  of 
climbing,  that  I  still  felt  some  faith  in  Colesel, 
and  put  my  best  foot  forwards  during  the  first 
part  of  my  expedition,  with  the  view  of  impressing 
him  with  a  respect  for  my  powers.  The  proceed- 
ing was  quite  unnecessary ;  my  guide  never  showed 
the  least  propensity  to  give  any  opinion  as  to 
my  best  route,  but  followed  me  with  great  cheer- 
fulness until  I  reached  the  glacier.     Then,  having 


The  Peaks  of  Primiero  289 

no  nails  in  his  shoes,  he  was  unable  to  make  much 
progress;  and  he  finally  broke  down  when  I  came 
to  a  climb  about  equal  in  difficulty  to  the  last 
rocks  of  the  Brevent.  So  much  1  feel  bound  to 
say  for  the  benefit  of  future  travellers;  but  I 
repeat  that  I  have  good  grounds  for  supposing 
Colesel  to  be  an  excellent  porter.  Any  one,  how- 
ever, meditating  an  assault  on  the  Primiero 
peaks  must  either  go  alone  or  bring  guides  from 
more  satisfactory  districts. 

Of  my  further  adventures  it  is  enough  to  say 
that  I  once  more  ascended  the  Val  di  Pravitali, 
turned  to  the  right  through  the  haunted  valley, 
climbed  the  Fradusta,  and  thence  crossing 
the  wild  elevated  plateau  from  which  some  of  the 
highest  peaks  take  their  rise,  descended  by  the 
Passo  delle  Cornelle  and  S.  Martino  di  Castrozza, 
and  so  returned  to  Primiero.  The  walk  deserves 
notice,  because  it  is  perfectly  easy,  and  gives  a 
complete  view  of  all  the  strange  peaks  1  have  en- 
deavoured to  describe.  I  hoped  at  the  time  that 
some  of  them  might  turn  out  to  be  inaccessible. 
Nay,  I  foolishly  ventured  to  express  that  hope 
to  the  Alpine  Club.  Straightway  a  gentleman, 
against  whom  1  have  no  other  complaint,  destroyed 
mv  vision  by  climbing  the  wildest  of  all,  the 
Cimon  della  Pala,  and  lias  pronounced  the  Palle 
di  vS.  Martino  to  be  accessible,  and,  what  is  worse, 
19 


290       The  Playground  of  Europe 

to  be  accessible  by  a  route  which  I  had  condemned. 
Far  be  it  from  me  to  contradict  him!  but  if  the 
evil  day  must  come,  I  will  have  no  more  guilt 
upon  my  conscience.  I  refrain,  therefore,  from 
throwing  out  the  slightest  hint  to  future  travellers 
of  the  aspiring  kind.  So  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
the  last  peaks  of  Primiero  may  remain  unsealed 
as  long  as  the  British  constitution  flourishes,  or 
the  Alpine  Club  continues  to  exist.  Yet  when  all 
the  peaks  are  climbed,  Primiero  will  be  scarcely 
less  attractive  than  of  old.  Every  now  and  then 
it  suddenly  comes  back  to  me  in  a  vague  dream, 
when  I  am  more  than  usually  struck  with  the 
absurdities  of  English  life,  and  my  soul  is  vexed 
with  paying  bills,  wearing  black  hats,  and  attend- 
ing evening  parties.  The  little  town,  with  its 
background  of  peaks,  shapes  itself  out  of  a  tobac- 
co-cloud at  dead  of  night,  when  the  organ-grinders 
are  dumb,  and  the  drowsy  rolling  of  the  distant 
omnibus  just  penetrates  the  silence  of  my  study. 
Then  I  say  to  myself,  I  will  retire  in  my  old  age 
to  Primiero ;  there  will  I  take  the  airs  of  a  British 
milord;  I  will  get  leave  to  occupy  the  old  castle 
of  Pietra,  and  extend  dignified  hospitality  to  a 
few  select  friends.  But  I  will  certainly  be  a  prop 
of  the  strictest  conservative  party;  I  will  oppose 
carriage  -  roads  tooth  and  nail;  no  newspapers 
shall    be    admitted    within    six    months    of    their 


The  Peaks  of  Primiero  291 

publication;  if  possible,  the  post-office  shall  be 
put  down;  all  imports  shall  be  forbidden,  except, 
indeed,  a  little  foreign  tobacco ;  and  the  Primierians 
shall  eat  their  own  mutton  and  be  clothed  with 
their  own  fleeces.  Freethinking  of  all  kinds  shall 
be  suppressed;  I  will  set  an  admirable  exam- 
ple by  regular  attendance  upon  early  mass — But 
somewhere  about  this  point  the  vision  becomes 
unsubstantial;  the  peaks  resolve  themselves  once 
more  into  commonplace  tobacco-smoke,  and  I 
magnanimously  consent,  like  Savage  and  Johnson, 
to  stand  by  my  native  country.  London  shall 
not  be  deprived  of  one  member  of  the  Alpine 
Club. 


CHAPTER  XI 


SUNSET  ON  MONT  BLANC 


I  profess  myself  to  be  a  loyal  adherent  of  the 
ancient  Monarch  of  Mountains,  and,  as  such,  I 
hold  as  a  primary  article  of  faith  the  doctrine  that 
no  Alpine  summit  is,  as  a  whole,  comparable  in 
sublimity  and  beauty  to  Mont  Blanc.  With  all 
his  faults  and  weaknesses,  and  in  spite  of  a  crowd 
of  upstart  rivals,  he  still  deserves  to  reign  in 
solitary  supremacy.  Such  an  opinion  seems  to 
some  mountaineers  as  great  an  anachronism  as 
the  creed  of  a  French  Legitimist.  The  coarse 
flattery  of  guide-books  has  done  much  to  sur- 
round him  with  vulgarising  associations;  even 
the  homage  of  poets  and  painters  has  deprived 
his  charms  of  their  early  freshness,  and  climbers 
have  ceased  to  regard  his  conquest  as  a  glorious, 
or,  indeed,  as  anything  but  a  most  commonplace 
exploit.  And  yet  Mont  Blanc  has  merits  which 
no  unintelligent  worship  can  obscure,  and  which 
bind  with  growing  fascination  the  unprejudiced 
lover  of  scenery.     Tried  by  a  low,  but  not  quite 

a  meaningless  standard,  the  old  monarch  can  still 

292 


ASCENDING    MONT    BLANC 
Fr'JtTi  .i  pliot'iur.iph  liy  S.:hpje<ler  A  Cii\,   I. 


Sunset  on  Mont  Blanc  293 

extort  respect.  He  can  show  a  longer  list  of 
killed  and  wounded  than  any  other  mountain  in 
the  Alps,  or  almost  than  all  other  mountains  put 
together.  In  his  milder  moods  he  may  be  ap- 
proached with  tolerable  safety  even  by  the  in- 
experienced; but  in  angry  moments,  when  he  puts 
on  his  robe  of  clouds  and  mutters  with  his  voice 
of  thunder,  no  mountain  is  so  terrible.  Even 
the  light  snow-wreaths  that  eddy  gracefully 
across  his  brow  in  fine  weather  sometimes  testify 
to  an  icy  storm  that  pierces  the  flesh  and  freezes 
the  very  marrow  of  the  bones.  But  we  should 
hardly  estimate  the  majesty  of  men  or  mountains 
by  the  length  of  their  butcher's  bill.  Mont  Blanc 
has  other  and  less  questionable  claims  on  our 
respect.  He  is  the  most  solitary  of  all  mountains, 
rising,  Saul-like,  a  head  and  shoulders  above  the 
crowd  of  attendant  peaks,  and  yet  within  that 
single  mass  there  is  greater  prodigality  of  the 
sublimest  scenery  than  in  whole  mountain  dis- 
tricts of  inferior  elevation.  The  sternest  and 
most  massive  of  cliffs,  the  wildest  spires  of  dis- 
torted rock,  bounding  torrents  of  shattered  ice, 
snow-fields  polished  and  even  as  a  sea-shell,  are 
combined  into  a  whole  of  infinite  variety  and  yet 
of  artistic  unity.  One  might  wander  for  days, 
were  such  wandering  made  possible-  by  other 
conditions,    amongst    his    crowning    snows,    and 


294        The  Playground  of  Europe 

every  day  would  present  new  combinations  of 
unsuspected  grandeur. 

Why,  indeed,  some  critics  will  ask,  should  we 
love  a  ruler  of  such  questionable  attributes? 
Scientifically  speaking,  the  so-called  monarch 
is  but  so  many  tons  of  bleak  granite  determining 
a  certain  quantity  of  aqueous  precipitation.  And 
if  for  literary  purposes  it  be  permissible  to  person- 
ify a  monstrous  rock,  the  worship  of  such  a  Moloch 
has  in  it  something  unnatural.  In  the  mouth  of 
the  poet  who  first  invested  him  with  royal  honours, 
the  language  was  at  least  in  keeping.  Byron's 
misanthropy,  real  or  affected,  might  identify 
love  of  nature  with  hatred  of  mankind:  and  a 
savage,  shapeless,  and  lifeless  idol  was  a  fitting 
centre  for  his  enthusiasm.  But  we  have  ceased  to 
believe  in  the  Childe  Harolds  and  the  Manfreds. 
Become  a  hermit — denounce  your  species,  and 
shrink  from  their  contact,  and  you  may  consis- 
tently love  the  peaks  where  human  life  exists 
on  sufferance,  and  whose  message  to  the  valleys 
is  conveyed  in  wasting  torrents  or  crushing 
avalanches.  Men  of  saner  mind  who  repudiate 
this  anti-social  creed  should  love  the  fertile  valleys 
and  grass-clad  ranges  better  than  these  symbols 
of  the  sternest  desolation.  All  the  enthusiasm 
for  the  wilder  scenery,  when  it  is  not  simple  af- 
fectation, is  the  product  of  a  temporary  phase  of 


Sunset  on  Mont  Blanc  295 

sentiment,  of  which  the  justification  has  now  ceased 
to  exist.  To  all  which  the  zealot  may  perhaps  re- 
ply most  judiciously,  Be  it  as  you  please.  Prefer, 
if  you  see  fit,  a  Leicestershire  meadow  or  even  a 
Lincolnshire  fen  to  the  cliff  and  glacier,  and  exalt 
the  view  from  the  Crystal  Palace  above  the  widest 
of  Alpine  panoramas.  Natural  scenery,  like  a 
great  work  of  art,  scorns  to  be  tied  down  to  any 
cut-and-dried  moral.  To  each  spectator  it  sug- 
gests a  different  train  of  thought  and  emotion, 
varying  as  widely  as  the  idiosyncrasy  of  the  mind 
affected.  If  Mont  Blanc  produces  in  you  nothing 
but  a  sense  of  hopeless  savagery,  well  and  good; 
confess  it  honestly  to  yourself  and  to  the  world, 
and  do  not  help  to  swell  the  chorus  of  insincere 
ecstasy.  But  neither  should  you  quarrel  with 
those  in  whom  the  same  sight  produces  emotions 
of  a  very  different  kind.  That  man  is  the  happiest 
and  wisest  who  can  draw  delight  from  the  most 
varied  objects:  from  the  quiet  bandbox  scenery 
of  cultivated  England,  or  from  the  boundless 
prairies  of  the  West ;  from  the  Thames  or  the 
Amazon,  Malvern  or  Mont  Blanc,  the  Virginia 
Water  or  the  Atlantic  Ocean.  If  the  reaction 
which  made  men  escape  with  sudden  ecstasy 
from  trim  gardens  to  rough  mountain  sides  was 
somewhat  exeessiw,  yet  there  was  in  it  a  core 
of  sound  feeling.      Dors  not  science  teach  us  more 


296       The  Playground  of  Europe 

and  more  emphatically  that  nothing  which  is 
natural  can  be  alien  to  us  who  are  part  of  nature? 
Where  does  Mont  Blanc  end,  and  where  do  I 
begin?  That  is  the  question  which  no  meta- 
physician has  hitherto  succeeded  in  answering. 
But  at  least  the  connection  is  close  and  intimate, 
lie  is  a  part  of  the  great  machinery  in  which  my 
physical  frame  is  inextricably  involved,  and  not 
the  less  interesting  because  a  part  which  I  am 
unable  to  subdue  to  my  purposes.  The  whole 
universe,  from  the  stars  and  the  planets  to  the 
mountains  and  the  insects  which  creep  about 
their  roots,  is  but  a  network  of  forces  eternally 
acting  and  reacting  upon  each  other.  The  mind 
of  man  is  a  musical  instrument  upon  which  all 
external  objects  are  beating  out  infinitely  com- 
plex harmonies  and  discords.  Too  often,  indeed, 
it  becomes  a  mere  barrel-organ,  mechanically 
repeating  the  tunes  which  have  once  been  im- 
pressed upon  it.  But  in  proportion  as  it  is  more 
vigorous  or  delicate,  it  should  retain  its  sensi- 
bility to  all  the  impulses  which  may  be  conveyed 
to  it  from  the  most  distant  sources.  And  certainly 
a  healthy  organisation  should  not  be  deaf  to  those 
more  solemn  and  melancholy  voices  which  speak 
through  the  wildest  aspects  of  nature.  "Our 
sweetest  songs,"  as  Shelley  says  in  his  best  mood, 
"are  those  which  tell  of  saddest  thought."     No 


Sunset  on  Mont  Blanc  297 

poetry  or  art  is  of  the  highest  order  in  which  there 
is  not  blended  some  strain  of  melancholy,  even 
to  sternness.  Shakespeare  would  not  be  Shake- 
speare if  it  were  not  for  that  ] profound  sense  of 
the  transitory  in  all  human  affairs  which  appears 
in  the  finest  sonnets  and  in  his  deepest  dramatic 
utterances.  When  he  tells  us  of  the  unsubstan- 
tial fabric  of  the  great  globe  itself,  or  the  glorious 
morning  which  "flatters  the  mountain  tops  with 
sovereign,  eye,"  only  to  be  hidden  by  the  "basest 
clouds,"  or,  anticipating  modern  geologists,  ob- 
serves 

The  hungry  ocean  gain 
Advantage  on  the  kingdom  of  the  shore, 

he  is  merely  putting  into  words  the  thoughts 
obscurely  present  to  the  mind  of  every  watcher 
of  the  eternal  mountains  which  have  outlasted 
so  many  generations,  and  are  yet,  like  all  other 
things,  hastening  to  decay.  The  mountains  re- 
present the  indomitable  force  of  nature  to  which 
we  are  forced  to  adapt  ourselves;  they  speak  to 
man  of  his  littleness  and  his  ephemeral  existence; 
they  rouse  us  from  the  placid  content  in  which 
we  may  be  lapped  when  contemplating  the  fat 
fields  which  we  have  conquered  and  the  rivers 
which  we  have  forced  to  run  according  to  our 
notions    of    convenience.     And,    therefore,    they 


298        The  Playground  of  Europe 

should  suggest  not  sheer  misanthropy,  as  they 
did  to  Byron,  or  an  outburst  of  revolutionary 
passion,  as  they  did  to  his  teacher  Rousseau, 
but  that  sense  of  awestruck  humility  which  be- 
fits such  petty  creatures  as  ourselves. 

It  is  true,  indeed,  that  Mont  Blanc  sometimes 
is  too  savage  for  poetry.  He  can  speak  in  down- 
right tragic  earnestness;  and  any  one  who  has 
been  caught  in  a  storm  on  some  of  his  higher  ice- 
fields, who  has  trembled  at  the  deadly  swoop  of  the 
gale,  or  at  the  ominous  sound  which  heralds  an 
avalanche,  or  at  the  remorseless  settling  down 
of  the  blinding  snow,  will  agree  that  at  times  he 
passes  the  limits  of  the  terrible  which  comes 
fairly  within  the  range  of  art.  There  are  times, 
however,  at  which  one  may  expect  to  find  pre- 
cisely the  right  blending  of  the  sweet  and  the 
stern.  And  in  particular,  there  are  those  ex- 
quisite moments  when  the  sunset  is  breathing 
over  his  calm  snowfields  its  "ardours  of  rest  and 
love."  Watched  from  beneath,  the  Alpine  glow, 
as  everybody  knows,  is  of  exquisite  beauty;  but 
unfortunately  the  spectacle  has  become  a  little 
too  popular.  The  very  sunset  seems  to  smell  of 
"Baedeker's  Guide."  The  flesh  is  weak;  and  the 
most  sympathetic  of  human  beings  is  apt  to  feel 
a  slight  sense  of  revulsion  when  the  French  guests 
at  a  table  d1  hotc  are  exclaiming  in  chorus,  "Mag- 


Sunset  on  Mont  Blanc  299 

nifique,  superbc!"  and  the  Germans  chiming  in 
with  " Wunderschon ! "  and  the  British  tourist 
patting  the  old  mountain  on  the  back,  and  the 
American  protesting  that  he  has  shinier  sunsets 
at  home.  Not  being  of  a  specially  sympathetic- 
nature,  I  had  frequently  wondered  how  that 
glorious  spectacle  would  look  from  the  solitary 
top  of  the  monarch  himself.  This  summer  1  was 
fortunate  enough,  owing  to  the  judicious  arrange- 
ments of  one  of  his  most  famous  courtiers — my 
old  friend  and  comrade  M.  Gabriel  Loppe, — to  be 
able  to  give  an  answer  founded  on  personal  ex- 
perience. The  result  was  to  me  so  interesting 
that  I  shall  venture — rash  as  the  attempt  may  be 
■ — to  give  some  account  of  a  phenomenon  of  ex- 
traordinary beauty  which  has  hitherto  been  wit- 
nessed by  not  more  than  some  half  dozen  human 
beings. 

It  was  in  the  early  morning  of  August  6,  1873, 
that  I  left  Chamouni  for  the  purpose.  The  sun 
rose  on  one  of  those  fresh  dewy  dawns  unknown 
except  in  the  mountains,  when  the  buoyant  air 
seems  as  it  were  to  penetrate  every  pore  in  one's 
body.      I   could    almost    say   with   Sir   Galahad-  - 

This  mortal  armour  that  I  wear, 
This  weight  and  size,  this  heart  and  eyes, 
Are  touch''!  and  turn'd  V>  finest  air. 

The  heavy,  sodden   framework  of  flesh  and  blood 


300        The  Playground  of  Europe 

which  I  languidly  dragged  along  London  streets 
has  undergone  a  strange  transformation,  and  it  is 
with  scarcely  a  conscious  effort  that  I  breast  the 
monstrous  hill  which  towers  above  me.  The 
pine-woods  give  out  their  aromatic  scent,  and  the 
little  glades  are  deep  in  ferns,  wild-flowers,  and 
strawberries.  Even  here,  the  latent  terrors  of  the 
mountains  are  kept  in  mind  by  the  huge  boulders 
which,  at  some  distant  day,  have  crashed  like 
cannon-balls  through  the  forest.  But  the  great 
mountain  is  not  now  indulging  in  one  of  his  pon- 
derous games  at  bowls,  and  the  soft  carpeting  of 
tender  vegetation  suggests  rather  luxurious  indo- 
lence, and,  maybe,  recalls  lazy  picnics  rather  than 
any  more  strenuous  memories.  Before  long, 
however,  we  emerged  from  the  forest,  and  soon 
the  bells  of  a  jolly  little  company  of  goats  bade  us 
farewell  on  the  limits  of  the  civilised  world,  as  we 
stepped  upon  the  still  frozen  glacier  and  found 
ourselves  fairly  in  the  presence.  We  were  alone 
with  the  mighty  dome,  dazzling  our  eyes  in  the 
brilliant  sunshine,  and  guarded  by  its  sleeping 
avalanches.  Luckily  there  was  no  temptation 
to  commit  the  abomination  of  walking  "against 
time"  or  racing  any  rival  caravan  of  climbers. 
The  whole  day  was  before  us,  for  it  would  have 
been  undesirable  to  reach  the  chilly  summit  too 
earlv;  and  we  could  afford  the  unusual  luxury  of 


Sunset  on  Mont  Blanc  301 

lounging  up  Mont  Blanc.  We  took,  I  hope,  full 
advantage  of  our  opportunities.  We  could  peer 
into  the  blue  depths  of  crevasses,  so  beautiful  that 
one  might  long  for  such  a  grave,  were  it  not  for 
the  awkward  prospect  of  having  one's  bones  put 
under  a  glass  ease  by  the  next  generation  of 
scientific  travellers.  We  could  record  in  our 
memories  the  strange  forms  of  the  shattered 
seracs,  those  grotesque  ice-masses  which  seem  to 
suggest  that  the  monarch  himself  has  a  certain 
clumsy  sense  of  humour.  We  lingered  longest  on 
the  summit  of  the  Dome  du  Gouter,  itself  a  most 
majestic  mountain  were  it  not  overawed  by  its 
gigantic  neighbour.  There,  on  the  few  ledges 
of  rock  which  are  left  exposed  in  summer,  the 
thunder  has  left  its  scars.  The  lightning's  strokes 
have  covered  numbers  of  stones  with  little  glass- 
like heads,  showing  that  this  must  be  one  of  its 
favourite  haunts.  But  on  this  glorious  summer 
day  the  lightnings  were  at  rest;  and  we  could 
peacefully  count  over  the  vast  wilderness  of 
peaks  which  already  stretched  far  and  wide 
beneath  our  feet.  The  lower  mountain  ranges 
appeared  to  be  drawn  up  in  parallel  ranks  like 
the  sea  waves  heaved  in  calm  weather  by  a  mono- 
tonous ground-swell.  Each  ridge  was  blended  into 
a  uniform  hue  by  the  intervening  atmosphere, 
sharply  defined   along  the  summit  line,   and   yet 


302        The  Playground  of  Europe 

only  distinguished  from  its  predecessor  and  succes- 
sor by  a  delicate  gradation  of  tone.  Such  a  view 
produces  the  powerful  but  shadowy  impression 
which  one  expects  from  an  opium  dream.  The 
vast  perspective  drags  itself  out  to  an  horizon  so 
distant  as  to  blend  imperceptibty  with  the  lower 
sky.  It  has  a  vague  suggestion  of  rhythmical 
motion,  strangely  combined  with  eternal  calm. 
Drop  a  pebble  into  a  perfectly  still  sheet  of  water ; 
imagine  that  each  ripple  is  supplanted  by  a  lofty 
mountain  range,  of  which  all  detail  is  lost  in 
purple  haze,  and  that  the  farthest  undulations 
melt  into  the  mysterious  infinite.  One  gazes 
with  a  sense  of  soothing  melancholy  as  one  listens 
to  plaintive  modulations  of  some  air  of  "linked 
sweetness  long  drawn  out."  Far  away  among 
the  hills  we  could  see  long  reaches  of  the  peaceful 
Lake  of  Geneva,  just  gleaming  through  the  vary- 
ing purple ;  but  at  our  backs  the  icy  crest  of  the 
great  mountain  still  rose  proudly  above  us,  to  re- 
mind us  that  our  task  was  not  yet  finished.  For- 
tunately for  us,  scarcely  a  cloud  was  to  be  seen 
under  the  enormous  concave  of  the  dark  blue 
heavens;  a  few  light  streamers  of  cirrus  were 
moving  gently  over  our  heads  in  those  remote 
abysses  from  which  they  never  condescend  even 
to  the  loftiest  of  Alpine  summits.  Faint  and 
evanescent  as  they  might  be,  they  possibly  had  an 


Sunset  on  Mont  Blanc  303 

ominous  meaning  for  the  future,  but  the  present 
was  our  own;  the  little  puffs  of  wind  that  whispered 
round  some  lofty  ledges  were  keen  enough  in 
quality  to  remind  us  of  possible  frost-bites,  but 
they  had  scarcely  force  enough  to  extinguish  a 
lucifer  match. 

Carefully  calculating  our  time,  we  advanced 
along  the  ''dromedary's  hump"  and  stepped  upon 
the  culminating  ridge  of  the  mountain  about  an 
hour  before  sunset.  We  had  time  to  collect  our- 
selves, to  awake  our  powers  of  observation,  and 
to  prepare  for  the  grand  spectacle,  for  which 
preparations  were  already  being  made.  There 
had  been  rehearsals  enough  in  all  conscience  to 
secure  a  perfect  performance.  For  millions  of 
ages  the  lamps  had  been  lighted  and  the  trans- 
parencies had  been  shown  with  no  human  eye 
to  observe  or  hand  to  applaud.  Twice,  I  believe 
only  twice,  before,  an  audience  had  taken  its 
place  in  this  lofty  gallery;  but  on  one  of  those 
occasions,  at  least,  the  observers  had  been  too 
unwell  to  do  justice  to  the  spectacle.  The  other 
party,  of  which  the  chief  member  was  a  French 
man  of  science,  Dr.  Martens,  had  been  obliged  to 
retreat  hastily  before  the  lights  were  extin- 
guished; but  their  fragmentary  account  had 
excited  our  curiosity,  and  we  had  the  pleasure  of 
verifying   the   most   striking   phenomenon    which 


304       The  Playground  of  Europe 

they  described.  And  now  we  waited  eagerly  for 
the  performance  to  commence;  the  cold  was 
sufficient  to  freeze  the  wine  in  our  bottles,  but 
in  still  air  the  cold  is  but  little  felt,  and  by  walking 
briskly  up  and  down  and  adopting  the  gymnastic 
exercise  in  which  the  London  cabman  delights  in 
cold  weather,  we  were  able  to  keep  up  a  sufficient 
degree  of  circulation.  I  say  "we,"  but  I  am  libel- 
ling the  most  enthusiastic  member  of  the  party. 
Loppe  sat  resolutely  on  the  snow,  at  the  risk,  as 
we  might  have  thought,  of  following  the  ex- 
ample of  Lot's  wife.  Superior,  as  it  appeared, 
to  all  the  frailties  which  beset  the  human  frame 
suddenly  plunged  into  a  temperature  I  know  not 
how  many  degrees  below  freezing-point,  he  worked 
with  ever-increasing  fury  in  a  desperate  attempt 
to  fix  upon  canvas  some  of  the  magic  beauties  of 
the  scene.  Glancing  from  earth  to  heaven  and 
from  north  to  south,  sketching  with  breathless 
rapidity  the  appearance  of  the  eastern  ranges, 
and  then  wheeling  round  like  a  weathercock  to 
make  hasty  notes  of  the  western  clouds,  breaking 
out  at  times  into  uncontrollable  exclamations  of 
delight,  or  reproving  his  thoughtless  companions 
when  their  opaque  bodies  eclipsed  a  whole  quarter 
of  the  heavens,  he  enjoyed,  I  should  fancy,  an 
hour  of  as  keen  delight  as  not  often  occurs  to  an 
enthusiastic  lover  of  the  sublime  in  nature.     We 


Sunset  on  Mont  Blanc  305 

laughed,  envied,  and  admired,  and  he  escaped 
frost-bites.  1  wish  that  1  could  substitute  his 
canvas — though,  to  say  the  truth,  1  fear  it  would 
exhibit  a  slight  confusion  of  the  points  of  the 
compass — for  my  words ;  but,  as  that  is  impossible, 
I  must  endeavour  briefly  to  indicate  the  most 
impressive  features  of  the  scenery.  My  readers 
must  kindly  set  their  imaginations  to  work  in 
aid  of  feeble  language ;  for  even  the  most  eloquent 
language  is  but  a  poor  substitute  for  a  painter's 
brush,  and  a  painter's  brush  lags  far  behind  these 
grandest  aspects  of  nature.  The  easiest  way  of 
obtaining  the  impression  is  to  follow  in  my  steps; 
for  in  watching  a  sunset  from  Mont  Blanc  one 
feels  that  one  is  passing  one  of  those  rare  moments 
of  life  at  which  all  the  surrounding  scenery  is 
instantaneously  and  indelibly  photographed  on 
the  mental  retina  by  a  process  which  no  second- 
hand operation  can  even  dimly  transfer  to  others. 
To  explain  its  nature  requires  a  word  or  two  of 
preface. 

The  ordinary  view  from  Mont  Blanc  is  not 
specially  picturesque — and  for  a  sufficient  reason. 
The  architect  has  concentrated  his  whole  energies 
in  producing  a  single  impression.  Everything 
has  been  so  arranged  as  to  intensify  the  sense 
of  vast  height  and  an  illimitable  horizon.  In  a 
good  old  guide-book  I  have  read,  on  the  authority 


3°6        The  Playground  of  Europe 

(I  think)  of  Pliny,  that  the  highest  mountain  in 
the  world  is  300,000  feet  above  the  sea;  and  one  is 
apt  to  fancy,  on  ascending  Mont  Blanc,  that  the 
guess  is  not  so  far  out.  The  effect  is  perfectly 
unique  in  the  Alps ;  but  it  is  produced  at  a  certain 
sacrifice.  All  dangerous  rivals  have  been  re- 
moved to  such  a  distance  as  to  become  apparently 
insignificant.  No  grand  mass  can  be  admitted 
into  the  foreground;  for  the  sense  of  vast  size  is 
gradually  forced  upon  you  by  the  infinite  multi- 
plicity of  detail.  Mont  Blanc  must  be  like  an 
Asiatic  despot,  alone  and  supreme,  with  all 
inferior  peaks  reverently  couched  at  his  feet. 
If  a  man,  previously  as  ignorant  of  geography  as  a 
boy  who  has  just  left  a  public  school,  could  be 
transported  for  a  moment  to  the  summit,  his 
impression  would  be  that  the  Alps  resembled  a 
village  of  a  hundred  hovels  grouped  round  a 
stupendous  cathedral.  Fully  to  appreciate  this 
effect  requires  a  certain  familiarity  with  Alpine 
scenery,  for  otherwise  the  effect  produced  is  a 
dwarfing  of  the  inferior  mountains  into  pettiness 
instead  of  an  exaltation  of  Mont  Blanc  into  almost 
portentous  magnificence.  Grouped  around  you  at 
unequal  distances  lie  innumerable  white  patches, 
looking  like  the  tented  encampments  of  scattered 
army  corps.  Hold  up  a  glove  at  arm's  length,  and 
it  will  cover  the  whole  of  such  a  group.     On  the 


Sunset  on  Mont  Blanc  307 

boundless  plain  beneath  (1  say  "plain,"  for  the 
greatest  mountain  system  of  Europe  appears  to 
have  subsided  into  a  rather  uneven  plain),  it  is  a 
mere  spot,  a  trifling  dent  upon  the  huge  shield  on 
whose  central  boss  you  are  placed.  But  you  know, 
though  at  first  you  can  hardly  realise  the  know- 
ledge, that  that  insignificant  discoloration  repre- 
sents a  whole  mountain  district.  One  spot,  for 
example,  represents  the  clustered  peaks  of  the 
Bernese  Oberland;  a  block,  as  big  as  a  pebble,  is 
the  soaring  Jungfrau,  the  terrible  mother  of 
avalanches;  a  barely  distinguishable  wrinkle  is  the 
reverse  of  those  snowy  wastes  of  the  Blumlis  Alp, 
which  seem  to  be  suspended  above  the  terrace  of 
Berne,  thirty  miles  away;  and  that  little  whitish 
streak  represents  the  greatest  ice-stream  of  the 
Alps,  the  huge  Aletsch  glacier,  whose  monstrous 
proportions  have  been  impressed  upon  you  by 
hours  of  laborious  plodding.  One  patch  contains 
the  main  sources  from  which  the  Rhine  descends  to 
the  German  Ocean,  two  or  three  more  overlook  the 
Italian  plains  and  encircle  the  basin  of  the  Po; 
from  a  more  distant  group  flows  the  Danube,  and 
from  your  feet  the  snows  melt  to  supply  the  Rhone. 
You  feel  that  you  are  in  some  sense  looking  down 
upon  Europe  from  Rotterdam  to  Venice  and  from 
Varna  to  Marseilles.  The  vividness  of  the  im- 
pression depends  entirely  upon  the  degree  to  which 


308        The  Playground  of  Europe 

you  can  realise  the  immense  size  of  all  these  im- 
measurable details.  Now,  in  the  morning,  the 
usual  time  for  an  ascent,  the  details  are  necessarily 
vague,  because  the  noblest  part  of  the  view  lies 
between  the  sun  and  the  spectator.  But  in  the 
evening  light  each  ridge,  and  peak,  and  glacier 
stands  out  with  startling  distinctness,  and  each, 
therefore,  is  laden  with  its  weight  of  old  associa- 
tion. There,  for  example,  was  the  grim  Matter- 
horn:  its  angular  dimensions  were  of  infinitesimal 
minuteness;  it  would  puzzle  a  mathematician  to 
say  how  small  a  space  its  image  would  occupy  on 
his  retina;  but,  within  that  small  space,  its  form 
was  defined  with  exquisite  accuracy ;  and  we  could 
recognise  the  precise  configuration  of  the  wild 
labyrinth  of  rocky  ridges  up  which  the  earlier 
adventurers  forced  their  way  from  the  Italian 
side.  And  thus  we  not  only  knew,  but  felt  that 
at  our  feet  was  lying  a  vast  slice  of  the  map  of 
Europe.  The  effect  was  to  exaggerate  the  ap- 
parent height,  till  the  view  had  about  it  something 
portentous  and  unnatural :  it  seemed  to  be  such  a 
view  as  could  be  granted  not  even  to  mountaineers 
of  earthly  mould,  but  rather  to  some  genie  from 
the  Arabian  Nights,  flying  high  above  a  world 
tinted  with  the  magical  colouring  of  old  romance. 
Thus  distinctly  drawn,  though  upon  so  minute 
a  scale,  every  rock  and   slope  preserved  its  true 


Sunset  on  Mont  Blanc  309 

value,  and  the  impression  of  stupendous  height 
became  almost  oppressive  as  it  was  forced  upon 
the  imagination  that  a  whole  world  of  mountains, 
each  of  them  a  mighty  mass  in  itself,  lay  couched 
far  beneath  our  feet,  reaching  across  the  whole 
diameter  of  the  vast  panorama.  And  now,  whilst 
occupied  in  drinking  in  that  strange  sensation, 
and  allowing  our  minds  to  recover  their  equilib- 
rium from  the  first  staggering  shock  of  astonish- 
ment, began  the  strange  spectacle  of  which  we 
were  the  sole  witnesses.  One  long  delicate  cloud, 
suspended  in  mid-air  just  below  the  sun,  was 
gradually  adorning  itself  with  prismatic  colouring. 
Round  the  limitless  horizon  ran  a  faint  fog-bank, 
unfortunately  not  quite  thick  enough  to  produce 
that  depth  of  colouring  which  sometimes  makes 
an  Alpine  sunset  inexpressibly  gorgeous.  The 
weather — it  was  the  only  complaint  we  had  to 
make — erred  on  the  side  of  fineness.  But  the 
colouring  was  brilliant  enough  to  prevent  any 
thoughts  of  serious  disappointment.  The  long 
series  of  western  ranges  melted  into  a  uniform  hue 
as  the  sun  declined  in  their  rear.  Amidst  their 
folds  the  Lake  of  Geneva  became  suddenly  lighted 
up  in  a  faint  yellow  gleam.  To  the  east  a  blue 
gauze  seemed  to  cover  valley  by  valley  as  they 
sank  into  night  and  the  intervening  ridges  rose 
with   increasing  distinctness,  or   rather  it  seemed 


310        The  Playground  of  Europe 

that  some  fluid  of  exquisite  delicacy  of  colour 
and  substance  was  flooding  all  the  lower  country 
beneath  the  great  mountains.  Peak  by  peak  the 
high  snow-fields  caught  the  rosy  glow  and  shone 
like  signal-fires  across  the  dim  breadths  of  delicate 
twilight.  Like  Xerxes,  we  looked  over  the  count- 
less host  sinking  into  rest,  but  with  the  rather 
different  reflection,  that  a  hundred  years  hence 
they  would  probably  be  doing  much  the  same 
thing,  whilst  we  should  long  have  ceased  to  take 
any  interest  in  the  performance.  And  suddenly 
began  a  more  startling  phenomenon.  A  vast 
cone,  with  its  apex  pointing  away  from  us,  seemed 
to  be  suddenly  cut  out  from  the  world  beneath; 
night  was  within  its  borders  and  the  twilight  still 
all  round;  the  blue  mists  were  quenched  where  it 
fell,  and  for  the  instant  we  could  scarcely  tell  what 
was  the  origin  of  this  strange  appearance.  Some 
unexpected  change  seemed  to  have  taken  place 
in  the  programme;  as  though  a  great  fold  in  the 
curtain  had  suddenly  given  way,  and  dropped  on 
to  part  of  the  scenery.  Of  course  a  moment's 
reflection  explained  the  meaning  of  this  uncanny 
intruder;  it  was  the  giant  shadow  of  Mont  Blanc, 
testifying  to  his  supremacy  over  all  meaner 
eminences.  It  is  difficult  to  say  how  sharply 
marked  was  the  outline,  and  how  startling  was 
the   contrast   between   this   pyramid    of  darkness 


Sunset  on  Mont  Blanc  311 

and  the  faintly-lighted  spaces  beyond  its  influence ; 
a  huge  inky  blot  seemed  to  have  suddenly  fallen 
upon  the  landscape.  As  we  gazed  we  could  see 
it  move.  It  swallowed  up  ridge  by  ridge,  and  its 
sharp  point  crept  steadily  from  one  landmark  to 
another  down  the  broad  Valley  of  Aosta.  We 
were  standing,  in  fact,  on  the  point  of  the  gnomon 
of  a  gigantic  sundial,  the  face  of  which  was  formed 
by  thousands  of  square  miles  of  mountain  and 
valley.  So  clear  was  the  outline  that,  if  figures 
had  been  scrawled  upon  glaciers  and  ridges,  we 
could  have  told  the  time  to  a  second ;  indeed,  we 
were  half-inclined  to  look  for  our  own  shadows  at 
a  distance  so  great  that  whole  villages  would  be 
represented  by  a  scarcely  distinguishable  speck 
of  colouring.  The  huge  shadow,  looking  ever  more 
strange  and  magical,  struck  the  distant  Becca  di 
Nona,  and  then  climbed  into  the  dark  region 
where  the  broader  shadow  of  the  world  was 
rising  into  the  eastern  sky.  By  some  singular 
effect  of  perspective,  rays  of  darkness  seemed  to 
be  converging  from  above  our  heads  to  a  point 
immediately  above  the  apex  of  the  shadowy  cone. 
For  a  time  it  seemed  that  there  was  a  kind  of 
anti-sun  in  the  east,  pouring  out  not  light,  but 
deep  shadow  as  it  rose.  The  apex  soon  reached 
the  horizon,  and  then  to  our  surprise  began  climb- 
ing the  distant  sky.     Would  it  never  stop,  and 


312        The  Playground  of  Europe 

was  Mont  Blanc  capable  of  overshadowing  not 
only  the  earth  but  the  sky?  For  a  minute  or  two 
I  fancied,  in  a  bewildered  way,  that  this  unearthly 
object  would  fairly  rise  from  the  ground  and 
climb  upwards  to  the  zenith.  But  rapidly  the 
lights  went  out  upon  the  great  army  of  mountains ; 
the  snow  all  round  took  the  livid  hue  which  im- 
mediately succeeds  an  Alpine  sunset,  and  almost 
at  a  blow  the  shadow  of  Mont  Blanc  was  swallowed 
up  in  the  general  shade  of  night.  The  display  had 
ceased  suddenly  at  its  culminating  point,  and  it 
was  highly  expedient  for  the  spectators  to  retire. 
We  had  no  time  to  lose  if  we  would  get  off  the 
summit  before  the  grip  of  the  frost  should  harden 
the  snows  into  an  ice-crust;  and  in  a  minute  we 
were  running  and  sliding  downwards  at  our  best 
pace  towards  the  familiar  Corridor.  Yet  as  we 
went  the  sombre  magnificence  of  the  scenery 
seemed  for  a  time  to  increase.  We  were  between 
the  day  and  the  night.  The  western  heavens  were 
of  the  most  brilliant  blue  with  spaces  of  trans- 
parent green,  whilst  a  few  scattered  cloudlets 
glowed  as  if  with  internal  fire.  To  the  east  the 
night  rushed  up  furiously,  and  it  was  difficult  to 
imagine  that  the  dark  purple  sky  was  really  cloud- 
less and  not  blackened  by  the  rising  of  some 
portentous  storm.  That  it  was,  in  fact,  cloudless, 
appeared  from  the  unbroken  disc  of  the  full  moon, 


Sunset  on  Mont  Blanc 


om 


which,  if  I  may  venture  to  say  so,  had  a  kind  of 
silly  expression,  as  though  it  were  a  bad  imitation 
of  the  sun,  totally  unable  to  keep  the  darkness  in 

order. 

With  how  sad  steps,  O  moon,  thou  climb'st  the  sky, 
How  silently  and  with  how  wan  a  face! 

as  Sidney  exclaims.  And  truly,  set  in  that  strange 
gloom,  the  moon  looked  wan  and  miserable  enough ; 
the  lingering  sunlight  showed  by  contrast  that  she 
was  but  a  feeble  source  of  illumination;  and,  but 
for  her  half-comic  look  of  helplessness,  we  might 
have  sympathised  with  the  astronomers  who  tell 
us  that  she  is  nothing  but  a  vast  perambulating 
tombstone,  proclaiming  to  all  mankind  in  the 
words  of  the  familar  epitaph,  "As  I  am  now,  you 
soon  shall  be!''  To  speak  after  the  fashion  of  early 
mythologies,  one  might  fancy  that  some  super- 
natural cuttlefish  was  shedding  his  ink  through 
the  heavens  to  distract  her,  and  that  the  poor 
moon  had  but  a  bad  chance  of  escaping  his 
clutches.  Hurrying  downwards  with  occasional 
glances  at  the  sky,  we  had  soon  reached  the  Grand 
Plateau,  whence  our  further  retreat  was  secure, 
and  from  that  wildest  of  mountain  fastnesses  we 
saw  the  last  striking  spectacle  of  the  evening.  In 
some  sense  it  was  perhaps  the  most  impressive  of 
all.     As   all    Alpine   travellers   know,    the   Grand 


314        The  Playground  of  Europe 

Plateau  is  a  level  space  of  evil  omen,  embraced 
by  a  vast  semicircle  of  icy  slopes.  The  avalanches 
which  occasionally  descend  across  it,  and  which 
have  caused  more  than  one  catastrophe,  give  it 
a  bad  reputation;  and  at  night  the  icy  jaws  of  the 
great  mountain  seem  to  be  enclosing  you  in  a 
fatal  embrace.  At  this  moment  there  was  some- 
thing half  grotesque  in  its  sternness.  Light  and 
shade  were  contrasted  in  a  manner  so  bold  as  to 
be  almost  bizarre.  One  half  of  the  cirque  was  of  a 
pallid  white  against  the  night,  which  was  rushing 
up  still  blacker  and  thicker,  except  that  a  few 
daring  stars  shone  out  like  fiery  sparks  against  a 
pitchy  canopy;  the  other  half,  reflecting  the  black 
night,  was  relieved  against  the  last  gleams  of  day- 
light; in  front  a  vivid  band  of  blood-red  light 
burnt  along  the  horizon,  beneath  which  seemed  to 
lie  an  abyss  of  mysterious  darkness.  It  was  the 
last  struggle  between  night  and  day,  and  the 
night  seemed  to  assume  a  more  ghastly  ferocity  as 
the  day  sank,  pale  and  cold,  before  its  antagonist. 
The  Grand  Plateau,  indeed,  is  a  fit  scene  for  such 
contrasts;  for  there  in  mid-day  you  may  feel 
the  reflection  of  the  blinding  snows  like  the  blast 
of  a  furnace,  where  a  few  hours  before  you  were 
realising  the  keenest  pangs  of  frost-bite.  The 
cold  and  the  night  were  now  the  conquerors,  and 
the  angry  sunset  glow  seemed  to  grudge  the  victory. 


Sunset  on  Mont  Blanc  315 

The  light  rapidly  faded,  and  the  darkness,  no  longer 
seen  in  the  strange  contrast,  subsided  to  its  ordi- 
nary tones.  The  magic  was  gone;  and  it  was  in  a 
commonplace  though  lovely  summer  night  that  we 
reached  our  resting-place  at  the  Grands  Millets. 
We  felt  that  we  had  learnt  some  new  secrets  as 
to  the  beauty  of  mountain  scenery,  but  the  se- 
crets were  of  that  kind  which  not  even  the  in- 
itiated can  reveal.  A  great  poet  might  interpret 
the  sentiment  of  the  mountains  into  song;  but 
no  poet  could  pack  into  any  definite  proposition 
or  series  of  propositions  the  strange  thoughts  that 
rise  in  different  spectators  of  such  a  scene.  All 
that  I  at  last  can  say  is  that  some  indefinable 
mixture  of  exhilaration  and  melancholy  pervades 
one's  mind;  one  feels  like  a  kind  of  cheerful 
Tithonus  "at  the  quiet  limit  of  the  world," 
looking  down  from  a  magic  elevation  upon  the 
"dim  fields  about  the  homes" 

Of  happy  men  that  have  the  power  to  die. 

One  is  still  of  the  earth,  earthy;  for  freezing  toes 
and  snow-parched  noses  are  lively  reminders  that 
(me  has  not  become  an  immortal.  Even  on  the 
top  of  Mont  Blanc  one  may  be  a  very  long  way 
from  heaven.  And  yet  the  mere  physical  eleva- 
tion of  a  league  above  the  sea  level  seems  to  raise 
one  by  moments  into  a  sphere  above  the  petty 


316       The  Playground  of  Europe 

interests  of  everyday  life.  Why  that  should  be 
so,  and  by  what  strange  threads  of  association 
the  reds  and  blues  of  a  gorgeous  sunset,  the 
fantastic  shapes  of  clouds  and  shadows  at  that 
dizzy  height,  and  the  dramatic  changes  that  sweep 
over  the  boundless  region  beneath  your  feet, 
should  stir  you  like  mysterious  music,  or,  indeed, 
wdiy  music  itself  should  have  such  power,  I  leave 
to  philosophers  to  explain.  This  only  I  know, 
that  even  the  memory  of  that  summer  evening  on 
the  top  of  Mont  Blanc  has  power  to  plunge  me 
into  strange  reveries  not  to  be  analysed  by  any- 
capacity,  and  still  less  capable  of  expression  by  the 
help  of  a  few  black  remarks  on  white  paper. 

One  word  must  be  added.  The  expedition  I 
have  described  is  perfectly  safe  and  easy,  if,  but 
only  if,  two  or  three  conditions  be  scrupulously 
observed.  The  weather,  of  course,  must  be 
faultless;  the  snow  must  be  in  perfect  order  or  a 
retreat  may  be  difficult;  and,  to  guard  against 
unforeseen  contingencies  which  are  so  common  in 
high  mountains,  there  should  be  a  sufficient  force 
of  guides  more  trustworthy  than  the  gentry  who 
hang  about  Chamouni  drinking-places.  If  these 
precautions  were  neglected,  serious  accidents 
would  be  easy,  and  at  any  rate  there  would  be  a 
very  fair  chance  that  the  enthusiastic  lover  of 
scenery  would  leave  his  toes  behind  him. 


CHAPTER   XII 


THE    ALPS    IN    WINTER 


Men  of  science  have  recently  called  our  attention 
to  the  phenomena  of  dual  consciousness.  To  the 
unscientific  mind  it  often  seems  that  consciousness 
in  its  normal  state  must  be  rather  multiple  than 
dual.  We  lead,  habitually,  many  lives  at  once, 
which  are  blended  and  intercalated  in  strangely 
complex  fashion.  Particular  moods  join  most 
naturally,  not  with  those  which  are  contiguous  in 
time,  but  with  those  which  owe  a  spontaneous 
affinity  to  their  identity  of  composition.  When 
in  my  study,  for  example,  it  often  seems  as  if  that 
part  alone  of  the  past  possessed  reality  which 
had  elapsed  within  the  same  walls.  All  else— the 
noisy  life  outside,  nay,  even  the  life,  sometimes 
rather  noisy  too,  in  the  next  room,  becomes  dream- 
like. I  can  fancy  that  my  most  intimate  self 
has  never  existed  elsewhere,  and  that  all  other 
experiences  recorded  by  memory  have  occurred  to 
other  selves  in  parallel  but  not  continuous  cur- 
rents of  life.     And  so,  after  a  holiday,  the  day  on 

which  we  resume  harness  joins  on  to  the  day  on 

317 


318        The  Playground  of  Europe 

which  we  dropped  it,  and  the  interval  fades  into 
a  mere  hallucination. 

There  are  times  when  this  power  (or  weakness) 
has  a  singular  charm.  We  can  take  up  dropped 
threads  of  life,  and  cancel  the  weary  monotony  of 
daily  drudgery;  though  we  cannot  go  back  to  the 
well-beloved  past,  we  can  place  ourselves  in  imme- 
diate relation  with  it,  and  break  the  barriers  which 
close  in  so  remorselessly  to  hide  it  from  longing 
eyes.  To  some  of  us  the  charm  is  worked  in- 
stantaneously by  the  sight  of  an  Alpine  peak.  The 
dome  of  Mont  Blanc  or  the  crags  of  the  Wetter- 
horn  are  spells  that  disperse  the  gathering  mists  of 
time.  We  can  gaze  upon  them  till  we  "beget  the 
golden  time  again."  And  there  is  this  peculiar 
fascination  about  the  eternal  mountains.  They 
never  recall  the  trifling  or  the  vulgarising  asso- 
ciation of  old  days.  There  are  times  when  the 
bare  sight  of  a  letter,  a  ring,  or  an  old  house,  over- 
powers some  people  with  the  rush  of  early  mem- 
ories. I  am  not  so  happily  constituted.  Relics 
of  the  conventional  kind  have  a  perverse  trick 
of  reviving  those  petty  incidents  which  one  would 
rather  forget.  They  recall  the  old  follies  that 
still  make  one  blush,  or  the  hasty  word  which  one 
would  buy  back  with  a  year  of  the  life  that  is  left. 
Our  English  fields  and  rivers  have  the  same  malig- 
nant freakishness.     Nature  in  our  little  island  is 


The  Alps  in  Winter  319 

too  much  dominated  by  the  petty  needs  of  human- 
ity to  have  an  affinity  for  the  simpler  and  deeper 
emotions.  With  the  Alps  it  is  otherwise.  There, 
as  after  a  hot  summer  day  the  rocks  radiate  back 
their  stores  of  heat,  every  peak  and  forest  seems 
to  be  still  redolent  with  the  most  fragrant  perfume 
of  memory.  The  trifling  and  vexatious  incidents 
cannot  adhere  to  such  weighty  monuments  of 
bygone  ages.  They  retain  whatever  of  high  and 
tender  and  pure  emotion  may  have  once  been 
associated  with  them.  If  I  were  to  invent  a  new 
idolatry  (rather  a  needless  task)  I  should  prostrate 
myself,  not  before  beast,  or  ocean,  or  sun,  but 
before  one  of  those  gigantic  masses  to  which,  in 
spite  of  all  reason,  it  is  impossible  not  to  attribute 
some  shadowy  personality.  Their  voice  is  mystic 
and  has  found  discordant  interpreters;  but  to 
me  at  least  it  speaks  in  tones  at  once  more  ten- 
der and  more  awe-inspiring  than  that  of  any  mor- 
tal teacher.  The  loftiest  and  sweetest  strains 
of  Milton  or  Wordsworth  may  be  more  articu- 
late, but  do  not  lay  so  forcible  a  grasp  upon  my 
imagination. 

In  the  summer  there  are  distractions.  The  busi- 
ness of  eating,  drinking,  and  moving  is  carried  on 
by  too  cumbrous  and  clanking  a  machinery.  But 
1  had  often  fancied  that  in  the  winter,  when  the 
whole    region    becomes    part    of    dreamland,    the 


320       The  Playground  of  Europe 

voice  would  be  more  audible  and  more  continuous. 
Access  might  be  attained  to  those  lofty  reveries 
in  which  the  true  mystic  imagines  time  to  be 
annihilated,  and  rises  into  beatific  visions  un- 
troubled by  the  accidental  and  the  temporary. 
Pure  undefined  emotion,  indifferent  to  any  logical 
embodiment,  undisturbed  by  external  perception, 
seems  to  belong  to  the  sphere  of  the  transcenden- 
tal. Few  people  have  the  power  to  rise  often  to 
such  regions  or  remain  in  them  long.  The  in- 
dulgence, when  habitual,  is  perilously  enervating. 
But  most  people  are  amply  secured  from  the 
danger  by  incapacity  for  the  enjoyment.  The 
temptation  assails  very  exceptional  natures.  We 
■ — the  positive  and  matter-of-fact  part  of  the 
world- — need  be  no  more  afraid  of  dreaming  too 
much  than  the  London  rough  need  be  warned 
against  an  excessive  devotion  to  the  Fine  Arts. 
Our  danger  is  the  reverse.  Let  us,  in  such  brief 
moments  as  may  be  propitious,  draw  the  curtains 
which  may  exclude  the  outside  world,  and  abandon 
ourselves  to  the  passing  luxury  of  abstract  medi- 
tation; or  rather,  for  the  word  meditation  suggests 
too  near  an  approach  to  ordinary  thought,  of 
passive  surrender  to  an  emotional  current. 

The  winter  Alps  provide  some  such  curtain. 
The  very  daylight  has  an  unreal  glow.  The  noisy 
summer  life  is  suspended.     A  scarce  audible  hush 


The  Alps  in  Winter  321 

seems  to  be  whispered  throughout  the  region. 
The  first  glacier  stream  that  you  meet  strikes  the 
.  keynote  of  the  prevailing  melody.  In  summer  the 
torrent  comes  down  like  a  charge  of  cavalry — all 
rush  and  roar  and  foam  and  fury — turbid  with  the 
dust  ground  from  the  mountain's  flanks  by  the  ice- 
share,  and  spluttering  and  writhing  in  its  bed  like 
a  creature  in  the  agonies  of  strangulation.  In 
winter  it  is  transformed  into  the  likeness  of  one  of 
the  gentle  brooks  that  creep  round  the  roots  of 
Scawfell,  or  even  one  of  those  sparkling  trout- 
streams  that  slide  through  a  water-meadow  be- 
neath Stonehenge.  It  is  perfectly  transparent. 
It  babbles  round  rocks  instead  of  clearing  them 
at  a  bound.  It  can  at  most  fret  away  the  edges 
of  the  huge  white  pillows  of  snow  that  cap  the 
boulders.  High  up  it  can  only  show  itself  at 
intervals  between  smothering  snow-beds  which 
form  continuous  bridges.  Even  the  thundering 
fall  of  the  Handeck  becomes  a  gentle  thread  of 
pure  water  creeping  behind  a  broad  sheet  of  ice, 
more  delicately  carved  and  moulded  than  a  lady's 
veil,  and  so  diminished  in  volume  that  one  wonders 
how  it  has  managed  to  festoon  the  broad  rock 
faces  with  so  vast  a  mass  of  pendent  icicles.  The 
pulse  of  the  mountains  is  beating  low;  the  huge 
arteries  through  which  the  life-blood  courses  so 
furiously  in  summer  have  become  a  world  too  wide 


322        The  Playground  of  Europe 

for  this  trickle  of  pellucid  water.  If  one  is  still 
forced  to  attribute  personality  to  the  peaks,  they 
are  clearly  in  a  state  of  suspended  animation. 
They  are  spellbound,  dreaming  of  dim  abysses 
of  past  time  or  of  the  summer  that  is  to  recall 
them  to  life.  They  are  in  a  trance  like  that  of 
the  Ancient  Mariner  when  he  heard  strange 
spirit  voices  conversing  overhead  in  mysterious 
murmurs. 

This  dreamlike  impression  is  everywhere  pervad- 
ing and  dominant.  It  is  in  proportion  to  the  con- 
trary impression  of  stupendous,  if  latent,  energy 
which  the  Alps  make  upon  one  in  summer.  Then 
when  an  avalanche  is  discharged  down  the  gorges 
of  the  Jungfrau,  one  fancies  it  the  signal  gun  of 
a  volley  of  artillery.  It  seems  to  betoken  the 
presence  of  some  huge  animal,  crouching  in 
suspense  but  in  perpetual  vigilance,  and  ready  at 
any  moment  to  spring  into  portentous  activity. 
In  the  winter  the  sound  recalls  the  uneasy 
movement  of  the  same  monster,  now  lapped  in 
sevenfold  dreams.  It  is  the  rare  interruption  to 
a  silence  which  may  be  felt — a  single  indication 
of  the  continued  existence  of  forces  which  are 
for  the  time  lulled  into  absolute  repose.  A  quiet 
sea  or  a  moonlit  forest  on  the  plains  may  give  an 
impression  of  slumber  in  some  sense  even  deeper. 
But  the  impression  is  not  so  vivid  because  less 


The  Alps  in  Winter 


6*6 


permanent  and  less  forcibly  contrasted.  The  low- 
land forest  will  soon  return  to  such  life  as  it 
possesses,  which  is  after  all  little  more  than  a  kind 
of  entomological  buzzing.  The  ocean  is  the  only 
rival  of  the  mountains.  But  the  six  months' 
paralysis  which  locks  up  the  energies  of  the  Alps 
has  a  greater  dignity  than  the  uncertain  repose  of 
the  sea.  It  is  as  proper  to  talk  of  a  sea  of  moun- 
tains as  of  a  mountain  wave;  but  the  comparison 
always  seems  to  me  derogatory  to  the  scenery 
which  has  the  greatest  appearance  of  organic 
unity.  The  sea  is  all  very  well  in  its  way;  but  it 
is  a  fidgety,  uncomfortable  kind  of  element;  you 
can  see  but  a  little  bit  of  it  at  a  time;  and  it  is 
capable  of  being  horribly  monotonous.  All  poetry 
to  the  contrary  notwithstanding,  I  hold  that  even 
the  Atlantic  is  often  little  better  than  a  bore. 
Its  sleep  chiefly  suggests  absence  of  the  most  un- 
dignified of  all  ailments;  and  it  never  approaches 
the  grandeur  of  the  strange  mountain  trance. 

There  are  dreams  and  dreams.  The  special 
merit  of  the  mountain  structure  is  in  the  harmoni- 
ous blending  of  certain  strains  of  emotion  not 
elsewhere  to  be  enjoyed  together.  The  winter 
Alps  are  melancholy,  as  everything  sublime  is 
more  or  less  melancholy.  The  melancholy  is  the 
spontaneous  recognition  by  human  nature  of  its 
own    pettiness    when     brought    into    immediate 


324        The  Playground  of  Europe 

contact  with  what  we  please  to  regard  as  eternal 
and  infinite.  It  is  the  starting  into  vivid  con- 
sciousness of  that  sentiment  which  poets  and 
preachers  have  tried,  with  varying  success,  to 
crystallise  into  definite  figures  and  formulae; 
which  is  necessarily  more  familiar  to  a  man's  mind, 
as  he  is  more  habitually  conversant  with  the 
vastest  objects  of  thought;  and  which  is  stimu- 
lated in  the  mountains  in  proportion  as  they  are 
less  dominated  by  the  petty  and  temporary 
activities  of  daily  life.  In  death,  it  is  often  said, 
the  family  likeness  comes  out  which  is  obscured 
by  individual  peculiarities  during  active  life.  So 
in  this  living  death  or  cataleptic  trance  of  the 
mountains,  they  carry  the  imagination  more 
easily  to  their  permanent  relations  with  epochs 
indefinitely  remote. 

The  melancholy,  however,  which  is  shared  with 
all  that  is  sublime  or  lovely  has  here  its  peculiar 
stamp.  It  is  at  once  exquisitely  tender  and  yet 
wholesome  and  stimulating.  The  Atlantic  in  a 
December  gale  produces  a  melancholy  tempered 
by  the  invigorating  influence  of  the  human  life 
that  struggles  against  its  fury;  but  there  is  no 
touch  of  tenderness  in  its  behaviour;  it  is  a  mon- 
ster which  would  take  a  cruel  pleasure  in  mangling 
and  disfiguring  its  victim.  A  boundless  plain  is 
often  at  once  melancholy  and  tender,  especially 


The  Alps  in  Winter  325 

when  shrouded  in  snow;  but  it  is  depressing  as 
the  vapours  which  hang  like  palls  over  a  dreary 
morass.  The  Alps  alone  possess  the  merit  of  at 
once  soothing  and  stimulating.  The  tender  half- 
tones, due  to  the  vaporous  air,  the  marvellous 
delicacy  of  light  and  shade  on  the  snow-piled 
ranges,  and  the  subtlety  of  line,  which  suggests 
that  some  sensitive  agent  has  been  moulding  the 
snow-covering  to  every  gentle  contour  of  the 
surface,  act  like  the  media  which  allow  the  light- 
giving  rays  to  pass,  whilst  quenching  the  rays  of 
heat;  they  transmit  the  soothing  and  resist  the 
depressing  influences  of  nature.  The  snow  on  a 
half-buried  chalet  suggests  a  kind  hand  laid  softly 
on  a  sick  man's  brows.  And  yet  the  nerves  are 
not  relaxed.  The  air  is  bright  and  bracing  as  the 
purest  breeze  on  the  seashore,  without  the  slight- 
est trace  of  languor.  It  has  the  inspiring  quality 
of  the  notorious  "wild  North-Easter, "  without  its 
preposterous  bluster.  Even  in  summer  the  same 
delicious  atmosphere  may  be  breathed  amongst 
the  higher  snow-fields  in  fine  weather.  In  winter 
it  descends  to  the  valleys,  and  the  nerves  are 
strung  as  firmly  as  those  of  a  race-horse  in  training, 
without  being  over-excited.  The  effect  is  height- 
ened by  the  intensity  of  character  which  redeems 
every  detail  of  a  mountain  region  from  the  com- 
monplace.    The  first  sight  of  a  pine-tree,  bearing 


326        The  Playground  of  Europe 

so  gallantly — with  something,  one  may  almost  say, 
of  military  jauntiness- — its  load  of  snow-crystals, 
destroyed  to  me  for  ever  the  charm  of  one  of 
Heine's  most  frequently-quoted  poems.  It  be- 
came once  for  all  impossible  to  conceive  of  that 
least  morbid  of  trees  indulging  in  melancholy 
longings  for  a  southern  palm.  It  may  show  some- 
thing of  the  sadness  of  a  hard  struggle  for  life; 
but  never  in  the  wildest  of  storms  could  it  con- 
descend to  sentimentalism. 

But  it  is  time  to  descend  to  detail.  The  Alps  in 
winter  belong,  I  have  said,  to  dreamland.  From 
the  moment  when  the  traveller  catches  sight,  from 
the  terraces  of  the  Jura,  of  the  long  encampment  of 
peaks,  from  Mont  Blanc  to  the  Wetterhorn,  to  the 
time  when  he  has  penetrated  to  the  innermost 
recesses  of  the  chain,  he  is  passing  through  a  series 
of  dreams  within  dreams.  Each  vision  is  a  portal 
to  one  beyond  and  within,  still  more  unsubstantial 
and  solemn.  One  passes,  by  slow  gradations,  to 
the  more  and  more  shadowy  regions,  where  the 
stream  of  life  runs  lower  and  the  enchantment 
binds  the  senses  with  a  more  powerful  opiate. 
Starting,  for  example,  from  the  loveliest  of  all 
conceivable  lakes,  where  the  Blumlis  Alp,  the 
Jungfrau,  and  Sehreekhorn  form  a  marvellous 
background  to  the  old  towers  of  Thun,  one  comes 
under  1  he  dominion  of  the  charm.   The  lake  waters, 


The  Alps  in  Winter  327 

no  longer  clouded  by  turbid  torrents,  are  mere 
liquid  turquoise.  They  are  of  the  colour  of  which 
Shelley  was  thinking  when  he  described  the  blue 
Mediterranean  awakened  from  his  summer  dreams 
"beside  a  pumice-isle  in  Baise's  Bay."  Between 
the  lake  and  the  snow-clad  hills  lie  the  withered 
forests,  the  delicate  reds  and  browns  of  the  de- 
ciduous foliage  giving  just  the  touch  of  warmth 
required  to  contrast  the  coolness  of  the  surrounding 
scenery.  And  higher  up,  the  pine-forests  still 
display  their  broad  zones  of  purple,  not  quite  in 
that  uncompromising  spirit  which  reduces  them 
in  the  intensity  of  summer  shadow  to  mere 
patches  of  pitchy  blackness,  but  mellowed  by 
the  misty  air,  and  with  their  foliage  judiciously 
softened  with  snow-dust  like  the  powdered  hair  of 
a  last-century  beauty.  There  is  no  longer  the 
fierce  glare  which  gives  a  look  of  parched  mono- 
tony to  the  stretches  of  lofty  pasture  under  an 
August  sun.  The  perpetual  greens,  denounced 
by  painters,  have  disappeared,  and  in  their  place 
are  ranges  of  novel  hue  and  texture  which  painters 
may  possibly  dislike-  for  I  am  not  familiar  with 
their  secrets — but  which  they  may  certainly  de- 
spair of  adequately  rendering.  The  ranges  are 
apparently  formed  of  a  delicate  material  of 
creamy  whiteness,  unlike  the  dazzling  splendours 
of  the  eternal  snows,  at  once  so  pure  and  so  mellow 


328       The  Playground  of  Europe 

that  it  suggests  rather  frozen  milk  than  ordinary 
snow.  If  not  so  ethereal,  it  is  softer  and  more 
tender  than  its  rival  on  the  loftier  peaks.  It  is 
moulded  into  the  same  magic  combination  of 
softness  and  delicacy  by  shadows  so  pure  in 
colour  that  they  seem  to  be  woven  out  of  the 
bluest  sky  itself.  Lake  and  forest  and  mountain 
are  lighted  by  the  low  sun,  casting  strange  misty 
shadows  to  portentous  heights,  to  fade  in  the 
vast  depths  of  the  sky,  or  to  lose  themselves 
imperceptibly  on  the  mountain  flanks.  As  the 
steamboat  runs  into  the  shadow  of  the  hills,  a 
group  of  pine-trees  on  the  sky-line  comes  near  the 
sun,  and  is  suddenly  transformed  into  molten 
silver;  or  some  snow-ridge,  pale  as  death  on  the 
nearest  side,  is  lighted  up  along  its  summit  with  a 
series  of  points  glowing  with  intense  brilliancy, 
as  though  the  peaks  were  being  kindled  by  a 
stupendous  burning-glass.  The  great  snow-moun- 
tains behind  stand  glaring  in  spectral  calm,  the 
cliffs  hoary  with  frost,  but  scarcely  changed  in 
outline  or  detail  from  their  summer  aspect.  When 
the  sun  sinks,  and  the  broad  glow  of  gorgeous 
colouring  fades  into  darkness,  or  is  absorbed 
by  a  wide  expanse  of  phosphoric  moonlight,  one 
feels  fairly  in  the  outer  court  of  dreamland. 

Scenery,  even  the  wildest  which  is  really  enjoy- 
able, derives  half  its  charm  from  the  occult  sense 


The  Alps  in  Winter  329 

of  the  human  life  and  social  forms  moulded  upon 
it.  A  bare  fragment  of  rock  is  ugly  till  enamelled 
by  lichens,  and  the  Alps  would  be  unbearably  stern 
but  for  the  picturesque  society  preserved  among 
their  folds.  In  summer  the  true  life  of  the  people 
is  obscured  by  the  rank  overgrowth  of  parasitic 
population.  In  winter  the  stream  of  existence 
shows  itself  in  more  of  its  primitive  form,  like  the 
rivulets  which  represent  the  glacier  torrents.  As 
one  penetrates  farther  into  the  valleys,  and  the 
bagman  clement- — the  only  representative  of  the 
superincumbent  summer  population- — disappears, 
one  finds  the  genuine  peasant,  neither  the  parasite 
which  sucks  the  blood  of  summer  tourists  nor 
the  melodramatic  humbug  of  operas  and  picture- 
books.  He  is  the  rough,  athletic  labourer,  wrest- 
ling with  nature  for  his  immediate  wants,  reducing 
industrial  life  to  its  simplest  forms,  and  with  a 
certain  capacity- — not  to  be  quite  overlooked- — for 
the  absorption  of  schnapps.  Even  Sir  Wilfrid 
Lawson  would  admit  the  force  of  the  temptation 
after  watching  a  day's  labour  in  the  snow-smoth- 
ered forests.  The  village  is  empty  of  its  male 
inhabitants  in  the  day,  and  towards  evening  one 
hears  distant  shouts  and  the  train  of  sleighs 
emerges  from  the  skirts  of  the  forest,  laden  with 
masses  of  winter  fodder,  or  with  the  mangled 
trunks  of  "patrician  trees,"  which  strain  to  the 


33°        The  Playground  of  Europe 

utmost  the  muscles  of  their  drawers.  As  the 
edge  of  an  open  slope  is  reached,  a  tumultuous 
glissade  takes  place  to  the  more  level  regions. 
Each  sleigh  puts  out  a  couple  of  legs  in  advance, 
like  an  insect's  feelers,  which  agitate  themselves 
in  strange  contortions,  resulting  by  some  unin- 
telligible process  in  steering  the  freight  past 
apparently  insuperable  obstacles.  One  may  take 
a  seat  upon  one  of  these  descending  thunderbolts 
as  one  may  shoot  the  rapids  of  the  St.  Lawrence; 
but  the  process  is  slightly  alarming  to  untrained 
nerves. 

As  the  sun  sinks,  the  lights  begin  to  twinkle  out 
across  the  snow  from  the  scattered  cottages,  more 
picturesque  than  ever  under  their  winter  covering. 
There  is  something  pathetic,  I  hardly  know  why, 
in  this  humble  illumination  which  lights  up  the 
snowy  waste  and  suggests  a  number  of  little 
isolated  foci  of  domestic  life.  One  imagines  the 
family  gathered  in  the  low  close  room,  its  old 
stained  timbers  barely  visible  by  the  glimmer  of 
the  primitive  lamp,  and  the  huge  beams  in  the 
ceiling  enclosing  mysterious  islands  of  gloom,  and 
remembers  Macaulay's  lonely  cottage  where 

The  oldest  cask  is  opened 
And  the  largest  lamp  is  lit. 

The    goodman    is    probably    carving  lop-sided 


The  Alps  in  Winter  331 

chamois  instead  of  "trimming  his  helmet's  plume" ; 
but  it  may  be  said  with  literal  truth  that 

The  good\vife's  shuttle  merrily 
Goes  flashing  through  the  loom, 

and  the  spinning-wheel  has  not  yet  become  a 
thing  of  the  past.  Though  more  primitive  in  its 
arrangements,  the  village  is  in  some  ways  more 
civilised  than  its  British  rival.  A  member  of  a 
School  Board  might  rejoice  to  see  the  energy  with 
which  the  children  are  making  up  arrears  of  edu- 
cation interrupted  by  the  summer  labours.  Olive 
branches  are  plentiful  in  these  parts,  and  they  seem 
to  thrive  amazingly  in  the  winter.  The  game  of 
sliding  in  miniature  sleighs  seems  to  be  inex- 
pressibly attractive  for  children  of  all  ages,  and 
may  possibly  produce  occasional  truancy.  But 
the  sleighs  also  carry  the  children  to  school  from 
the  higher  clusters  of  houses,  and  they  are  to  be 
seen  making  daily  pilgrimages  long  enough  to 
imply  a  considerable  tax  upon  their  pedestrian 
powers.  A  little  picture  comes  back  to  me  as  I 
write  of  a  string  of  red-nosed  urchins  plodding 
vigorously  up  the  deep  tracks  which  lead  from 
the  lower  valley  to  a  remote  hamlet  in  a  subsidiary 
glen.  The  day  was  gloomy,  the  light  was  fading, 
and  the  grey  hill-ranges  melted  indislinguishably 
into  the  grey  sky.     The  forms  of  the  narrow  glen, 


S32        The  Playground  of  Europe 

of  the  level  bottom  in  which  a  few  cottages 
clustered  near  the  smothered  stream,  of  the 
sweeps  of  pine-forests  rising  steeply  to  the  steeper 
slopes  of  alp,  and  of  the  ranges  of  precipitous  rock 
above  were  just  indicated  by  a  few  broad  sweeps 
of  dim  shadow  distinct  enough  to  suggest,  whilst 
scarcely  defining,  the  main  features  of  the  valley 
and  its  walls.  Lights  and  shadows  intermingled 
so  faint  and  delicate  that  each  seemed  other;  the 
ground  was  a  form  of  twilight;  and  certainly  it 
looked  as  though  the  children  had  no  very  cheerful 
prospect  before  them.  But,  luckily,  the  mental 
colouring  bestowed  by  the  childish  mind  upon 
familiar  objects  does  not  come  from  without  nor 
lepend  upon  the  associations  which  are  indis- 
soluble for  the  older  observer. 

There  is  no  want,  indeed,  of  natural  symbols  of 
melancholy  feeling,  of  impressive  bits  of  embodied 
sadness,  recalling  in  sentiment  some  of  Bewick's 
little  vignettes  of  storm-beaten  crag  and  desolate 
churchyard.  Any  place  out  of  season  has  a  cer- 
tain charm  for  my  mind  in  its  suggestions  of 
dreamful  indolence.  But  the  Alpine  melancholy 
deepens  at  times  to  pathos  and  even  to  passionate 
regret.  The  deserted  aspect  of  these  familiar 
regions  is  often  delicious  in  its  way,  especially 
to  jaded  faculties.  But  it  is  needless  to  explain 
at  length  why  some  familiar  spots  should  now  be 


The  Alps  in  Winter  333 

haunted,  why  silence  should  sometimes  echo  with 
a  bitter  pang  the  voices  of  the  past,  or  the  snow 
seem  to  be  resting  on  the  grave  of  dead  happiness. 
The  less  said  on  such  things  the  better;  though 
the  sentiment  makes  itself  felt  too  emphatically  to 
be  quite  ignored.  The  sadder  strains  blend  more 
audibly  with  the  music  of  the  scenery  as  one 
passes  upwards  through  grim  gorges  towards  the 
central  chain  and  the  last  throbs  of  animation 
begin  to  die  away.  In  the  calmest  summer  day 
the  higher  Aar  valley  is  stern  and  savage  enough. 
Of  all  congenial  scenes  for  the  brutalities  of  a 
battlefield,  none  could  be  more  appropriate  than 
the  dark  basin  of  the  Grimsel,  with  nothing  above 
but  the  bleakest  of  rock  and  the  most  desolate  of 
snow-fields,  and  the  sullen  lake  below,  equally 
ready  to  receive  French  or  Austrian  corpses.  The 
winter  aspect  of  the  valley  seems  to  vary  between 
two  poles.  It  can  look  ghastly  as  death  when  the 
middle  air  is  thick  with  falling  snow,  just  revealing 
at  intervals  the  black  bosses  of  smoothed  cliff  that 
glare  fantastically  downwards  from  apparently 
impassable  heights,  whilst  below  the  great  gash 
of  the  torrent-bed  looks  all  the  more  savage  from 
the  cakes  of  thick  ice  on  the  boulders  at  the  bot- 
tom. It  presents  an  aspect  which  by  comparison 
may  be  called  gentle  when  the  winter  moonlight 
shows  every  swell  in   the  continuous   snow-fields 


334       The  Playground  of  Europe 

that  have  gagged  the  torrent  and  smoothed  the 
ruggedness  of  the  rocks.  But  the  gorge  is  scarcely 
cheerful  at  the  best  of  times,  nor  can  one  say  that 
the  hospice  to  which  it  leads  is  a  lively  place  of 
residence  for  the  winter.  Buried  almost  to  the 
eaves  in  snow,  it  looks  like  an  eccentric  grey 
rock  with  green  shutters.  A  couple  of  servants 
spend  their  time  in  the  kitchen  with  a  dog  or  two 
for  company  and  have  the  consolations  of  litera- 
ture in  the  shape  of  a  well-thumbed  almanac. 
Doubtless  its  assurance  that  time  docs  not  actually 
stand  still  must  often  be  welcome.  The  little  dribble 
of  commerce,  which  never  quite  ceases,  is  repre- 
sented by  a  few  peasants,  who  may  occasionally 
be  weatherbound  long  enough  to  make  serious 
inroads  on  the  dry  bread  and  frozen  ham.  Pigs, 
for  some  unknown  reason,  seem  to  be  the  chief 
article  of  exchange,  and  they  squeal  emphatic  dis- 
approval of  their  enforced  journey.  At  such 
a  point  one  is  hanging  on  to  the  extremest 
verge  of  civilisation.  It  is  the  last  outpost 
held  by  man  in  the  dreary  regions  of  frost.  One 
must  generally  reach  it  by  floundering  knee- 
deep,  with  an  occasional  plunge  into  deeper 
drifts,  through  hours  of  severe  labour.  Here 
one  has  got  almost  to  the  last  term.  The  dream 
is    almost    a    nightmare.      One's   soul   is    sinking 


The  Alps  in  Winter 


00 


into  that  sleep 

Where  the  dreamer  seems  to  be 
Weltering  through  eternity. 

There  is  but  a  fragile  link  between  ourself  and 
the  outer  world.  Taking  a  plunge  into  deep 
water,  the  diver  has  sometimes  an  uncomfortable, 
feeling,  as  though  an  insuperable  distance  in- 
tervened between  himself  and  the  surface.  Here 
one  is  engulfed  in  abysses  of  wintry  silence.  One 
is  overwhelmed  and  drenched  with  the  sense  of 
mountain  solitude.  And  yet  it  is  desirable  to 
pass  yet  farther,  and  to  feel  that  this  flicker  of 
life,  feeble  as  it  may  be,  ma}-  yet  be  a  place  of 
refuge  as  the  one  remaining  bond  between  your- 
self and  society.  One  is  but  playing  at  danger; 
but  for  the  moment  one  can  sympathise  with  the 
xVrctic  adventurer  pushing  towards  the  pole,  and 
feeling  that  the  ship  which  he  has  left  behind  is  the 
sole  basis  of  his  operations.  Above  the  Grimsel 
rises  the  Galenstock,  which,  though  not  one  of  the 
mightiest  giants,  is  a  grand  enough  peak,  and 
stands  almost  at  the  central  nucleus  of  the  Alps. 
The  head  waters  of  the  Rhone  and  the  Rhine  flow 
from  its  base,  and  it  looks  defiantly  across  a  waste 
of  glaciers  to  its  great  brethren  of  the  Oberland. 
It  recalls  Milton's  magnificent  phrase,  "The  great 
vision  of  the  guarded  Mount,"  but  looks  over  a 


336       The  Playground  of  Europe 

nobler  prospect  than  St.  Michael's.  Five  hours' 
walk  will  reach  it  in  summer,  and  it  seemed  that 
its  winter  panorama  must  be  one  of  the  most 
characteristic  in  the  region.  The  accident  which 
frustrated  our  attempt  gave  a  taste  of  that  savage 
nature  which  seems  ready  to  leap  to  life  in  the 
winter  mountains.  The  ferocious  element  of  the 
scenery  raged  for  a  few  minutes,  which  might 
easily  have  been  terrible. 

We  had  climbed  high  towards  the  giant  back- 
bone of  the  mountain,  and  a  few  minutes  would 
have  placed  us  on  the  top.  We  were  in  that  dim 
upper  stratum,  pierced  by  the  nobler  peaks  alone, 
and  our  next  neighbour  in  one  direction  was  the 
group  of  Monte  Rosa,  some  sixty  miles  away,  but 
softly  and  clearly  denned  in  every  detail  as  an 
Alpine  distance  alone  can  be.  Suddenly,  without 
a  warning  or  an  apparent  cause,  the  weather 
changed.  The  thin  white  flakes  which  had  been 
wandering  high  above  our  heads  changed  sud- 
denly into  a  broad  black  veil  of  vapour,  dimming 
square  leagues  of  snow  with  its  shadows.  A  few 
salmon-coloured  wreaths  that  had  been  lingering 
near  the  farthest  ranges  had  vanished  between 
two  glances  at  the  distance,  and  in  their  place 
long  trailers  of  cloud  spread  themselves  like  a 
network  of  black  cobwebs  from  the  bayonet-point 
of  the  Weisshorn  to  the  sreat  bastion  of  the  Monte 


The  Alps  in  Winter  337 

Rosa,  and  seemed  to  be  shooting  out  mysterious 
fibres,  as  the  spider  projects  its  nets  of  gossamer. 
Though  no  formed  mass  of  cloud  had  showed 
itself,  the  atmosphere  bathing  the  Oberland  peaks 
rapidly  lost  its  transparency,  and  changed  into  a 
huge  blur  of  indefinite  gloom.  A  wind,  cold  and 
icy  enough,  had  all  day  been  sucked  down  the 
broad  funnel  of  the  Rhone  glacier,  from  the 
limiting  ridges ;  and  the  light  powdery  snow  along 
the  final  parapet  of  the  Galenstock  had  been 
blowing  off  in  regular  puffs,  suggestive  of  the 
steady  roll  of  rifle  smoke  from  the  file-firing  of  a 
battalion  in  line.  Now  the  wind  grew  louder  and 
shriller;  miniature  whirlwinds  began  to  rollick 
down  the  steep  gullies,  and  when  one  turned 
towards  the  wind,  it  seemed  as  if  an  ice-cold  hand 
was  administering  a  sharp  blow  to  the  cheek.  In 
our  solitude,  beyond  all  possible  communication 
with  permanent  habitation,  distant  by  some  hours 
of  walk  even  from  our  base  at  the  Grimsel,  there 
was  something  almost  terrible  in  this  sudden  and 
ominous  awakening  of  the  storm  spirit.  We  had 
ventured  into  the  monster's  fastness  and  he  was 
rousing  himself.  We  depended  upon  the  coming 
moon  for  our  homeward  route,  and  the  moon 
would  not  have  much  power  in  the  thick  snow- 
storm that  was  apparently  about  to  envelop  us. 
Retreat  was  evidently  prudent,  and  when  the 


33 8        The  Playground  of  Europe 

dim  light  began  to  fade  we  were  still  climbing  that 
broad-backed  miscellaneous  ridge  or  congeries  of 
ridges  which  divides  the  Grimsel  from  the  Rhone 
glacier.  In  summer  it  is  a  wilderness  of  rocky 
hummocks  and  boulders,  affording  shelter  to  the 
most  ambitious  stragglers  of  the  Alpine  rose,  and 
visited  by  an  occasional  chamois — a  kind  of 
neutral  ground  between  the  kingdom  of  perpetual 
snow  and  the  highest  pastures — one  of  those 
chaotic  misshapen  regions  which  suggest  that  the 
world  has  not  been  quite  finished.  In  winter,  a  few 
black  rocks  alone  peep  through  the  snowy  blanket ; 
the  hollows  become  covered  pitfalls;  and  some 
care  is  required  in  steering  through  its  intricacies, 
and  crossing  gullies  steep  enough  to  suggest  a 
possibility  of  avalanches.  Night  and  storm  might 
make  the  work  severe,  though  there  was  no  danger 
for  men  of  average  capacity,  and  with  first-rate 
guides.  But,  suddenly  and  perversely,  the  heavi- 
est and  strongest  man  of  the  party  declared 
himself  to  be  ill.  His  legs  began  to  totter,  and  he 
expressed  a  decided  approbation  of  sitting  in  the 
abstract.  Then,  I  must  confess,  an  uncomfort- 
able vision  flitted  for  a  moment  through  my  brain. 
I  did  not  think  of  the  spirited  description  of  the 
shepherd,  in  Thomson,  lost  in  the  snow-drifts, 
when,  foul  and  fierce, 
All  winter  drives  along  the  darkened  air. 


The  Alps  in  Winter  339 

But  I  did  recall  a  dozen  uncomfortable  legends — 
only  too  authentic— of  travellers  lost,  far  nearer 
to  hospitable  refuges,  in  Alpine  storms;  of  that 
disgusting  museum  of  corpses,  which  the  monks 
are  not  ashamed  to  keep  for  the  edification  of 
travellers  across  the  St.  Bernard;  of  the  English 
tourists  frozen  almost  within  reach  of  safety  on 
the  Col  du  Bonhomme;  of  that  poor  unknown 
wanderer,  who  was  found  a  year  or  two  ago  in  one 
of  the  highest  chalets  of  the  Val  de  Bagne,  having 
just  been  able  to  struggle  thither,  in  the  winter, 
with  strength  enough  to  write  a  few  words  on  a 
bit  of  paper,  for  the  instruction  of  those  who 
would  find  his  body  when  the  spring  brought  back 
the  nomadic  inhabitants.  Some  shadowy  antici- 
pation suggested  itself  of  a  possible  newspaper 
paragraph,  describing  the  zeal  with  which  we  had 
argued  against  our  friend's  drowsiness,  of  our 
brandy  giving  out,  and  pinches,  blows,  and  kicks 
gradually  succeeding  to  verbal  remonstrance. 
Have  not  such  sad  little  dramas  been  described  in 
numberless  books  of  travel?  But  the  foreboding 
was  thrown  away.  Our  friend's  distress  yielded 
to  the  simplest  of  all  conceivable  remedies.  A 
few  hunches  of  bread  and  cheese  restored  him  to 
a  vigour  quite  excluding  even  the  most  remote 
consideration  of  the  propriety  of  applying  physical 
force.      lie  was,  1  believe,  the  freshest  of  the  party 


34°        The  Playground  of  Europe 

when  we  came  once  more,  as  the  moonlight  made 
its  last  rally  against  the  gathering  storm,  in  sight 
of  the  slumbering  hospice.  It  certainly  was  as 
grim  as  ever — solitary  and  gloomy  as  the  hut  of  an 
Esquimau,  representing  an  almost  presumptuous 
attempt  of  man  to  struggle  against  the  intentions 
of  nature,  which  would  have  bound  the  whole 
region  in  the  rigidity  of  tenfold  torpor.  To  us, 
fresh  from  still  sterner  regions,  where  our  dreams 
had  begun  to  be  haunted  by  fierce  phantoms 
resentful  of  our  intrusion,  it  seemed  an  embodi- 
ment of  comfort.  It  is  only  fair  to  add  that  the 
temporary  hermit  of  the  place  welcomed  us  as 
heartily  as  might  be  to  his  ascetic  fare,  and  did 
not  even  regard  us  as  appropriate  victims  of 
speculation. 

After  this  vision  of  the  savageness  of  winter,  I 
would  willingly  venture  one  more  description;  but 
I  have  been  already  too  daring,  and  beyond  certain 
limits  I  admit  the  folly  of  describing  the  indescrib- 
able. There  are  sights  and  scenes,  in  presence  of 
which  the  describer,  who  must  feel  himself  to  be,  at 
best,  a  very  poor  creature,  begins  to  be  sensible 
that  he  is  not  only  impertinent  but  profane.  I 
could,  of  course,  give  a  rough  catalogue  of  the 
beauties  of  the  Wengern  Alp  in  winter;  a  statement 
of  the  number  of  hours  wading  in  snow  across  its 
slopes;  a  rhapsody  about  the  loveliness  of  peaks 


The  Alps  in  Winter  341 

seen  between  the  loaded  pine-branches,  or  the 
marvellous  variety  of  sublimity  and  tender  beauty 
enjoyed  in  perfect  calm  of  bright  weather  on  the 
dividing  ridge.  But  I  refrain.  To  me  the  Wen- 
gern  Alp  is  a  sacred  place — the  holy  of  holies  in 
the  mountain  sanctuary,  and  the  emotions  pro- 
duced when  no  desecrating  influence  is  present 
and  old  memories  rise  up,  softened  by  the  sweet 
sadness  of  the  scenery,  belong  to  that  innermost 
region  of  feeling  which  I  would  not,  if  I  could,  lay 
bare.  Byron's  exploitation  of  the  scenery  becomes 
a  mere  impertinence;  Scott's  simplicity  would  not 
have  been  exalted  enough ;  Wordsworth  would  have 
seen  this  much  of  his  own  image;  and  Shelley, 
though  he  could  have  caught  some  of  the  finer  senti- 
ments, would  have  half  spoilt  it  by  some  metaphy- 
sical rant.  The  best  modern  describers  cannot 
shake  off  their  moralising  or  their  scientific 
speculations  or  their  desire  to  be  humorous 
sufficiently  to  do  justice  to  such  beauties.  A 
follower  in  their  steps  will  do  well  to  pass  by  with 
a  simple  confession  of  wonder  and  awe. 

The  last  glorious  vision  showed  itself  as  we  de- 
scended from  Lauterbrunnen,  in  the  evening, 
regretting  the  neglect  of  nature  to  provide  men 
with  eyes  in  their  backs.  The  moonlight,  re- 
flected from  the  all-enveloping  shroud  of  snow, 
slept  on  the  lower  ridges  before  us,  and  gave  a 


342        The  Playground  of  Europe 

mysterious  beauty  to  the  deep  gorge  of  the  white 
Lutschine ;  but  behind  us  it  turned  the  magnificent 
pyramid  of  the  Jungfrau  from  base  to  summit  into 
one  glowing  mass  of  magical  light.     It  was  not  a 
single  mass — a  flat  continuous  surface,  as  it  often 
appears  in  the  more  emphatic  lights  and  shades  of 
daytime — but  a  whole  wilderness  of  peak,  cliff, 
and  glacier,  rising  in  terrace  above  terrace  and 
pyramid  above  pyramid,  divided  by  mysterious 
valleys  and  shadowy  recesses,  the  forms  growing 
more  delicate  as  the)'  rose,  till  they  culminated 
in  the  grand  contrast  of  the  balanced  cone  of  the 
Silberhorn  and  the  flowing  sweep  of  the  loftiest 
crest.     A  chaos  of  grand  forms,  it  yet  suggests 
some  pervading  design,  too  subtle  to  be  under- 
stood by  mortal  vision,  and  scorning  all  comparison 
with  earthly  architecture.     And  the  whole  was 
formed,  not  of  vulgar  ice  and  earth,  but  of  in- 
carnate light.     The  darkest  shadow  was  bright 
against  the  faint  cliffs  of  the  shadowy  gorge,  and 
the  highest  light  faint  enough  to  be  woven  out  of 
reflected  moonshine.     So  exquisitely  modulated, 
and  at  once  so  audacious  and  so  delicate  in  its 
sumptuous  splendours  of  design,  it  belonged  to 
the  dream  region,  in  which  we  appear  to  be  in- 
spired with  supernatural  influences. 

But  I  am  verging  upon  the  poetical.     Within  a 
few  hours  we  were  again  struggling  for  coffee  in  the 


THE    STAUBBACH,     LAUTE RBRUNN EN 
From  ;i  phut'.-iMph  by  Sommers,   Naples 


The  Alps  in  Winter  343 

buffets  of  railway  stations  and  forgetting  all  duties, 
pleasures,  and  human  interests  amongst  the  tum- 
bling waves  of  the  "silver  streak."  The  winter 
Alps  no  longer  exist.  They  are  but  a  vision— a 
faint  memory  intruding  itself  at  intervals,  when 
the  roar  of  commonplace  has  an  interval  of  still- 
ness. Only,  if  dreams  were  not  at  times  the  best 
and  most  solid  of  realities,  the  world  would  be 
intolerable. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    REGRETS    OF    A    MOUNTAINEER 

I  have  often  felt  a  sympathy,  which  almost 
rises  to  the  pathetic,  when  looking  on  at  a  cricket- 
match  or  boat-race.  Something  of  the  emotion 
with  which  Gray  regarded  the  "distant  spires 
and  antique  towers"  rises  within  me.  It  is  not, 
indeed,  that  I  feel  very  deeply  for  the  fine  ingenu- 
ous lads  who,  as  somebody  says,  are  about  to  be 
degraded  into  tricky,  selfish  Members  of  Parlia- 
ment. I  have  seen  too  much  of  them.  They 
are  very  fine  animals;  but  they  are  rather  too 
exclusively  animal.  The  soul  is  apt  to  be  in  too 
embryonic  a  state  within  these  cases  of  well- 
strung  bone  and  muscle.  It  is  impossible  for  a 
mere  athletic  machine,  however  finely  constructed, 
to  appeal  very  deeply  to  one's  finer  sentiments. 
I  can  scarcely  look  forward  with  even  an  affecta- 
tion of  sorrow  for  the  time  when,  if  more  so- 
phisticated, it  will  at  least  have  made  a  nearer 
approach  to  the  dignity  of  an  intellectual  being. 
It  is  not  the  boys  who  make  me  feel  a  touch  of 
sadness;  their  approaching  elevation  to  the  dignity 

344 


The  Regrets  of  a  Mountaineer     345 

of  manhood  will  raise  them  on  the  whole  in  the 
scale  of  humanity;  it  is  the  older  spectators  whose 
aspect  has  in  it  something  affecting.  The  shaky 
old  gentleman,  who  played  in  the  days  when 
it  was  decidedly  less  dangerous  to  stand  up  to 
bowling  than  to  a  cannon-ball,  and  who  now 
hobbles  about  on  rheumatic  joints,  by  the  help 
of  a  stick ;  the  corpulent  elder,  who  rowed  when 
boats  had  gangways  down  their  middle,  and  did 
not  require  as  delicate  a  balance  as  an  acrobat's 
at  the  top  of  a  living  pyramid — these  are  the 
persons  whom  I  cannot  see  without  an  occasional 
sigh.  The)T  are  really  conscious  that  they  have 
lost  something  which  they  can  never  regain;  or, 
if  they  momentarily  forget  it,  it  is  even  more 
forcibly  impressed  upon  the  spectators.  To  see 
a  respectable  old  gentleman  of  sixty,  weighing 
some  fifteen  stone,  suddenly  forget  a  third  of  his 
weight  and  two  thirds  of  his  years,  and  attempt  to 
caper  like  a  boy,  is  indeed  a  startling  phenomenon. 
To  the  thoughtless,  it  may  be  simply  comic;  but, 
without  being  a  Jaques,  one  may  contrive  also  to 
suck  some  melancholy  out  of  it. 

Xow,  as  I  have  never  caught  a  cricket-ball,  and, 
on  the  contrary,  have  caught  numerous  crabs  in 
my  life,  the  sympathy  which  I  feel  for  these 
declining  athletes  is  not  due  to  any  great  personal 
interest  in  the  matter.      But   I  have  long  antici- 


346       The  Playground  of  Europe 

pated  that  a  similar  day  would  come  for  me,  when 
I  should  no  longer  be  able  to  pursue  my  favourite 
sport  of  mountaineering.  Some  day  I  should 
find  that  the  ascent  of  a  zigzag  was  as  bad  as  a 
performance  on  the  treadmill;  that  I  could  not 
look  over  a  precipice  without  a  swimming  in  the 
head;  and  that  I  could  no  more  jump  a  crevasse 
than  the  Thames  at  Westminster.  None  of  these 
things  have  come  to  pass.  So  far  as  I  know,  my 
physical  powers  arc  still  equal  to  the  ascent  of 
Mont  Blanc  or  the  Jungfrau.  But  I  am  no  less 
effectually  debarred — it  matters  not  how — from 
mountaineering.  I  wander  at  the  foot  of  the 
gigantic  Alps,  and  look  up  longingly  to  the  sum- 
mits, which  are  apparently  so  near,  and  yet  know 
that  they  are  divided  from  me  by  an  impassable 
gulf.  In  some  missionary  work  I  have  read  that 
certain  South  Sea  Islanders  believed  in  a  future 
paradise  where  the  good  should  go  on  eating  for 
ever  with  insatiable  appetites  at  an  inexhaustible 
banquet.  They  were  to  continue  their  eternal 
dinner  in  a  house  with  open  wickerwork  sides ; 
and  it  was  to  be  the  punishment  of  the  damned 
to  crawl  outside  in  perpetual  hunger  and  look  in 
through  the  chinks  as  little  boys  look  in  through 
the  windows  of  a  London  cookshop.  With 
similar  feelings  I  lately  watched  through  a  tele- 
scope  the   small   black   dots,    which    were  really 


The  Regrets  of  a  Mountaineer     347 

men,  creeping  up  the  high  flanks  of  Mont  Blanc 
or  Monte  Rosa.  The  eternal  snows  represented 
for  me  the  Elysian  fields,  into  which  entrance 
was  sternly  forbidden,  and  I  lingered  about  the 
spot  with  a  mixture  of  pleasure  and  pain,  in  the 
envious  contemplation  of  my  more  fortunate 
companions. 

I  know  there  are  those  who  will  receive  these 
assertions  with  civil  incredulity.  Some  persons 
assume  that  every  pleasure  with  which  they  can- 
not sympathise  is  necessarily  affectation,  and  hold, 
as  a  particular  case  of  that  doctrine,  that  Alpine 
travellers  risk  their  lives  merely  from  fashion  or 
desire  of  notoriety.  Others  are  kind  enough  to 
admit  that  there  is  something  genuine  in  the 
passion,  but  put  it  on  a  level  with  the  passion  for 
climbing  greased  poles.  They  think  it  derogatory 
to  the  due  dignity  of  Mont  Blanc  that  he  should 
be  used  as  a  greased  pole,  and  assure  us  that  the 
true  pleasures  of  the  Alps  are  those  which  are 
within  reach  of  the  old  and  the  invalids,  who  can 
only  creep  about  villages  and  along  highroads.  I 
cannot  well  argue  with  such  detractors  from  what  I 
consider  a  noble  sport.  As  for  the  first  class,  it  is 
reduced  almost  to  a  question  of  veracity.  I  say 
that  I  enjoy  being  on  the  top  of  a  mountain,  or, 
indeed,  half-way  up  a  mountain;  that  climbing  is  a 
pleasure  to  me,  and  would  be  so  if  no  one  else 


348       The  Playground  of  Europe 

climbed  and  no  one  ever  heard  of  my  climbing. 
They  reply  that  they  don't  believe  it.  No  more 
argument  is  possible  than  if  I  were  to  say  that  I 
liked  eating  olives,  and  some  one  asserted  that  I 
really  eat  them  only  out  of  affectation.  My  reply 
would  be  simply  to  go  on  eating  olives ;  and  I  hope 
the  reply  of  mountaineers  will  be  to  go  on  climbing 
Alps.  The  other  assault  is  more  intelligible.  Our 
critics  admit  that  we  have  a  pleasure;  but  assert 
that  it  is  a  puerile  pleasure — that  it  leads  to  an 
irreverent  view  of  mountain  beauty,  and  to  over- 
sight of  that  which  should  really  most  impress  a 
refined  and  noble  mind.  To  this  I  shall  only  make 
such  an  indirect  reply  as  may  result  from  a  frank 
confession  of  my  own  regrets  at  giving  up  the 
climbing  business — perhaps  for  ever.  I  am  sink- 
ing, so  to  speak,  from  the  butterfly  to  the  cater- 
pillar stage,  and,  if  the  creeping  thing  is  really 
the  higher  of  the  two,  it  will  appear  that  there  is 
something  in  the  substance  of  my  lamentations 
unworthy  of  an  intellectual  being.  Let  me  try. 
By  way  of  preface,  however,  I  admit  that  moun- 
taineering, in  my  sense  of  the  word,  is  a  sport. 
It  is  a  sport  which,  like  fishing  or  shooting,  brings 
one  into  contact  with  the  sublimest  aspects  of 
nature;  and,  without  setting  their  enjoyment 
before  one  as  an  ultimate  end  or  aim,  helps  one 
indirectly  to  absorb  and  be  penetrated  by  their 


The  Regrets  of  a  Mountaineer     3  1.9 

influence.  Still  it  is  strictly  a  sport — as  strictly 
as  cricket,  or  rowing,  or  knurr-and-spcll — and  I 
have  no  wish  to  place  it  on  a  different  footing. 
The  game  is  won  when  a  mountain-top  is  reached 
in  spite  of  difficulties ;  it  is  lost  when  one  is  forced 
to  retreat;  and,  whether  won  or  lost,  it  calls  into 
play  a  great  variety  of  physical  and  intellectual 
energies,  and  gives  the  pleasure  which  always  ac- 
companies an  energetic  use  of  our  faculties.  Still 
it  suffers  in  some  degree  from  this  undeniable 
characteristic,  and  especially  from  the  tinge  which 
has  consequently  been  communicated  to  narratives 
of  mountain  adventures.  There  are  two  ways 
which  have  been  appropriated  to  the  description 
of  all  sporting  exploits.  One  is  to  indulge  in  fine 
writing  about  them,  to  burst  out  in  sentences  which 
swell  to  paragraphs,  and  in  paragraphs  which 
spread  over  pages;  to  plunge  into  ecstasies  about 
infinite  abysses  and  overpowering  splendours, 
to  compare  mountains  to  archangels  lying  down  in 
eternal  winding-sheets  of  snow,  and  to  convert 
them  into  allegories  about  man's  highest  destinies 
and  aspirations.  This  is  good  when  it  is  well  done. 
Mr.  Ruskin  has  covered  the  Matterhorn,  for  ex- 
ample, with  a  whole  web  of  poetical  associations, 
in  language  which,  to  a  severe  taste,  is  perhaps  a 
trifle  too  fine,  though  he  has  done  it  with  an  elo- 
quence which  his  bitterest  antagonists  must  freely 


35°        The  Playground  of  Europe 

acknowledge.  Yet  most  humble  writers  will  feel 
that  if  they  try  to  imitate  Mr.  Ruskin's  eloquence 
they  will  pay  the  penalty  of  becoming  ridiculous. 
It  is  not  every  one  who  can  with  impunity  com- 
pare Alps  to  archangels.  Tall  talk  is  luckily  an 
object  of  suspicion  to  Englishmen,  and  conse- 
quently most  writers,  and  especially  those  who 
frankly  adopt  the  sporting  view  of  the  mountains, 
adopt  the  opposite  scheme:  they  affect  something 
like  cynicism;  they  mix  descriptions  of  scenery 
with  allusions  to  fleas  or  to  bitter  beer;  they 
shrink  with  the  prevailing  dread  of  Englishmen 
from  the  danger  of  overstepping  the  limits  of  the 
sublime  into  its  proverbial  opposite;  and  they 
humbly  try  to  amuse  us  because  they  can't  strike 
us  with  awe.  This,  too,  if  I  may  venture  to  say 
so,  is  good  in  its  way  and  place ;  and  it  seems  rather 
hard  to  these  luckless  writers  when  people  assume 
that,  because  they  make  jokes  on  a  mountain,  they 
are  necessarily  insensible  to  its  awful  sublimities. 
A  sense  of  humour  is  not  incompatible  with  imagi- 
native sensibility;  and  even  Wordsworth  might 
have  been  an  equally  powerful  prophet  of  nature 
if  he  could  sometimes  have  descended  from  his 
stilts.  In  short,  a  man  may  worship  mountains 
and  yet  have  a  quiet  joke  with  them  when  he  is 
wandering  all  day  in  their  tremendous  solitudes. 
Joking,  however,  is,  it  must  be  admitted,  a  dan- 


The  Regrets  of  a  Mountaineer     351 

gerous  habit.  I  freely  avow  that,  in  my  humble 
contributions  to  Alpine  literature,  I  have  myself 
made  some  very  poor  and  very  unseasonable 
witticisms.  I  confess  my  error,  and  only  wish 
that  I  had  no  worse  errors  to  confess.  Still  I 
think  that  the  poor  little  jokes  in  which  we  moun- 
taineers sometimes  indulge  have  been  made  liable 
to  rather  harsh  constructions.  We  are  accused, 
in  downright  earnest,  not  merely  of  being  flippant, 
but  of  an  arrogant  contempt  for  all  persons  whose 
legs  are  not  as  strong  as  our  own.  We  are  sup- 
posed seriously  to  wrap  ourselves  in  our  own  con- 
ceit, and  to  brag  intolerably  of  our  exploits.  Now 
I  will  nut  say  that  no  mountaineer  ever  swaggers: 
the  quality  called  by  the  vulgar  ''bounce"  is 
unluckily  confined  to  no  profession.  Certainly 
I  have  seen  a  man  intolerably  vain  because  he 
could  raise  a  hundred-weight  with  his  little  finger; 
and  I  dare  say  that  the  ■'champion  bill-poster," 
whose  name  is  advertised  on  the  walls  of  this 
metropolis,  thinks  excellence  in  bill-posting  the 
highest  virtue  of  a  citizen.  So  some  men  may 
be  silly  enough  to  brag  in  all  seriousness  about 
mountain  exploits.  However,  most  lads  of  twenty 
learn  that  it  is  silly  to  give  themselves  airs  about 
mere  muscular  eminence;  and  especially  is  this 
true  of  Alpine  exploits— first,  because  they  re- 
quire less  physical  prowess  than  almost  any  other 


352         The  Playground  of  Europe 

sport,  and  secondly,  because  a  good  amateur  still 
feels  himself  the  hopeless  inferior  of  half  the  Alpine 
peasants  whom  he  sees.  You  cannot  be  very 
conceited  about  a  game  in  which  the  first  clod- 
hopper you  meet  can  give  you  ten  minutes'  start 
in  an  hour.  Still,  a  man  writing  in  a  humorous 
vein  naturally  adopts  a  certain  bumptious  tone, 
just  as  our  friend  Punch  ostentatiously  de- 
clares himself  to  be  omniscient  and  infallible. 
Nobody  takes  him  at  his  word,  or  supposes  that 
the  editor  of  Punch  is  really  the  most  conceited 
man  in  all  England.  But  we  poor  mountaineers 
are  occasionally  fixed  with  our  own  careless  talk 
by  some  outsider  who  is  not  in  the  secret.  We 
know  ourselves  to  be  a  small  sect,  and  to  be  often 
laughed  at ;  we  reply  by  assuming  that  we  are  the 
salt  of  the  earth,  and  that  our  amusement  is  the 
first  and  noblest  of  all  amusements.  Our  only 
retort  to  the  good-humoured  ridicule  with  which 
we  are  occasionally  treated  is  to  adopt  an  affected 
strut,  and  to  carry  it  off  as  if  we  were  the  finest 
fellows  in  the  world.  We  make  a  boast  of  our 
shame,  and  say,  if  you  laugh  we  must  crow.  But 
we  don't  really  mean  anything:  if  we  did,  the  only 
word  which  the  English  language  would  afford 
wherewith  to  describe  us  would  be  the  very  un- 
pleasant antithesis  to  wise  men,  and  certainly  I 
hold  that  we  have  the  average  amount  of  common- 


The  Regrets  of  a  Mountaineer     353 

sense.  When,  therefore,  I  see  us  taken  to  task  for 
swaggering,  I  think  it  a  trifle  hard  that  this  merely 
playful  affectation  of  superiority  should  be  made 
a  serious  fault.  For  the  future  I  would  promise  to 
be  careful,  if  it  were  worth  avoiding  the  misunder- 
standing of  men  who  won't  take  a  joke.  Mean- 
while, I  can  only  state  that  when  Alpine  travellers 
indulge  in  a  little  swagger  about  their  own  per- 
formances and  other  people's  incapacity,  they 
don't  mean  more  than  an  infinitesimal  fraction 
of  what  they  say,  and  that  they  know  perfectly 
well  that  when  history  comes  to  pronounce  a  final 
judgment  upon  the  men  of  the  time,  it  won't  put 
mountain-climbing  on  a  level  with  patriotism,  or 
even  with  excellence  in  the  fine  arts. 

The  reproach  of  real  bona  fide  arrogance  is,  so 
far  as  I  know,  very  little  true  of  Alpine  travellers. 
With  the  exception  of  the  necessary  fringe  hanging 
on  to  every  set  of  human  beings — consisting  of 
persons  whose  heads  are  weaker  than  their  legs — 
the  mountaineer,  so  far  as  my  experience  has  gone, 
is  generally  modest  enough.  Perhaps  he  some- 
times Haunts  his  ice-axes  and  ropes  a  little  too 
much  before  the  public  eye  at  Chamouni,  as  a 
yachtsman  occasionally  flourishes  his  nautical 
costume  at  Cowcs;  but  the  fault  may  be  par- 
doned by  those  not  inexorable  to  human  weak- 
nesses.    This  opinion,  I  know,  cuts  at  the  root  of 


354       The  Playground  of  Europe 

the  most  popular  theory  as  to  our  ruling  passion. 
If  we  do  not  climb  the  Alps  to  gain  notoriety,  for 
what  purpose  can  we  possibly  climb  them?  That 
same  unlucky  trick  of  joking  is  taken  to  indicate 
that  we  don't  care  much  about  the  scenery;  for 
who,  with  a  really  susceptible  soul,  could  be 
facetious  under  the  cliffs  of  Jungfrau  or  the 
ghastly  precipices  of  the  Matterhorn?  Hence 
people  who  kindly  excuse  us  from  the  blame  of 
notoriety-hunting  generally  accept  the  "greased- 
pole"  theory.  We  are,  it  seems,  overgrown 
schoolboys,  who,  like  other  schoolboys,  enjoy 
being  in  dirt,  and  danger,  and  mischief,  and  have 
as  much  sensibility  for  natural  beauty  as  the 
mountain  mules.  And  against  this,  as  a  more 
serious  complaint,  I  wish  to  make  my  feeble 
protest,  in  order  that  my  lamentations  on  quitting 
the  profession  may  not  seem  unworthy  of  a  think- 
ing being. 

Let  me  try  to  recall  some  of  the  impressions 
which  mountaineering  has  left  with  me,  and  see 
whether  they  throw  any  light  upon  the  subject. 
As  I  gaze  at  the  huge  cliffs  where  I  may  no  longer 
wander,  I  find  innumerable  recollections  arise — 
some  of  them  dim,  as  though  belonging  to  a  past 
existence;  and  some  so  brilliant  that  I  can  scarcely 
realise  my  exclusion  from  the  scenes  to  which  they 
belong.     I  am  standing  at  the  foot  of  what,  to 


The  Regrets  of  a  Mountaineer     355 

my  mind,  is  the  most  glorious  of  all  Alpine  wonders 
— the  huge  Oberland  precipice,  on  the  slopes  of 
the  Faulhorn  or  the  Wengern  Alp.  Innumerable 
tourists  have  done  all  that  tourists  can  do  to 
cocknify  (if  that  is  the  right  derivative  from  cock- 
ney) the  scenery;  but,  like  the  Pyramids  or  a 
Gothic  cathedral,  it  throws  off  the  taint  of  vulgar- 
ity by  its  imperishable  majesty.  Even  on  turf 
strewn  with  sandwich-papers  and  empty  bottles, 
even  in  the  presence  of  hideous  peasant-women 
singing ' '  Stand-er  auf "  for  five  centimes,  we  cannot 
but  feel  the  influence  of  Alpine  beauty.  When  the 
sunlight  is  dying  off  the  snows,  or  the  full  moon 
lighting  them  up  with  ethereal  tints,  even  sand- 
wich-papers and  singing  women  may  be  forgotten. 
How  does  the  memory  of  scrambles  along  snow 
aretes,  of  plunges — luckily  not  too  deep — into 
crevasses,  of  toil  through  long  snow-fields,  towards 
a  refuge  that  seemed  to  recede  as  we  advanced — 
where,  to  quote  Tennyson  with  due  alteration,  to 
the  traveller  toiling  in   immeasurable  snow — 

Sown  in  a  wrinkle  of  the  monstrous  hill 
The  chalet  sparkles  like  a  grain  of  salt; — 

how  do  such  memories  as  these  harmonise  with  the 

sense  of  superlative  sublimit}'? 

One  element  of  mountain  beauty  is,  we   shall 
all  admit,  their  vast  size  and  steepness.     That  a 


356        The  Playground  of  Europe 

mountain  is  very  big,  and  is  faced  by  perpendicu- 
lar walls  of  rock,  is  the  first  thing  which  strikes 
everybody,  and  is  the  whole  essence  and  outcome 
of  a  vast  quantity  of  poetical  description.  Hence 
the  first  condition  towards  a  due  appreciation  of 
mountain  scenery  is  that  these  qualities  should  be 
impressed  upon  the  imagination.  The  mere  dry 
statement  that  a  mountain  is  so  many  feet  in  verti- 
cal height  above  the  sea,  and  contains  so  many 
tons  of  granite,  is  nothing.  Mont  Blanc  is  about 
three  miles  high.  What  of  that?  Three  miles 
is  an  hour's  walk  for  a  lady — an  eighteen-penny 
cab-fare — the  distance  from  Hyde  Park  Corner 
to  the  Bank — an  express  train  could  do  it  in  three 
minutes,  or  a  race-horse  in  five.  It  is  a  measure 
which  we  have  learnt  to  despise,  looking  at  it  from 
a  horizontal  point  of  view;  and  accordingly  most 
persons,  on  seeing  the  Alps  for  the  first  time, 
guess  them  to  be  higher,  as  measured  in  feet,  than 
they  really  are.  What,  indeed,  is  the  use  of 
giving  measures  in  feet  to  any  but  the  scientific 
mind?  Who  cares  whether  the  moon  is  250,000 
or  2,500,000  miles  distant?  Mathematicians  try 
to  impress  upon  us  that  the  distance  of  the  fixed 
stars  is  only  expressible  by  a  row  of  figures  which 
stretches  across  a  page;  suppose  it  stretched  across 
two  or  across  a  dozen  pages,  should  we  be  any  the 
wiser,  or  have,  in  the  least  degree,  a  clearer  notion 


The  Regrets  of  a  Mountaineer     357 

of  the  superlative  distances?  We  civilly  say, 
"Dear  me!"  when  the  astronomer  looks  to  us  for 
the  appropriate  stare,  but  we  only  say  it  with  the 
mouth;  internally  our  remark  is,  "You  might  as 
well  have  multiplied,  by  a  few  more  millions  whilst 
you  were  about  it."  Even  astronomers,  though 
not  a  specially  imaginative  race,  feel  the  impotence 
of  figures,  and  try  to  give  us  some  measure  which 
the  mind  can  grasp  a  little  more  conveniently. 
They  tell  us  about  the  cannon-ball  which  might 
have  been  flying  ever  since  the  time  of  Adam,  and 
not  yet  have  reached  the  heavenly  body,  or  about 
the  stars  which  may  not  yet  have  become  visible, 
though  the  light  has  been  flying  to  us  at  a  rate 
inconceivable  by  the  mind  for  an  inconceivable 
number  of  years ;  and  they  succeed  in  producing  a 
bewildering  and  giddy  sensation,  although  the 
numbers  are  too  vast  to  admit  of  any  accurate 
apprehension. 

We  feel  a  similar  need  in  the  case  of  mountains. 
Besides  the  bare  statement  of  figures,  it  is  neces- 
sary to  have  some  means  for  grasping  the  meaning 
of  the  figures.  The  bare  tens  and  thousands  must 
be  clothed  with  some  concrete  images.  The 
statement  that  a  mountain  is  15,000  feet  high  is, 
by  itself,  little  more  impressive  than  that  it  is 
3000;  we  want  something  more  before  wc  can 
mentally    compare    Mont    Blanc     and    Snowdon. 


358       The  Playground  of  Europe 

Indeed,  the  same  people  who  guess  of  a  mountain's 
height  at  a  number  of  feet  much  exceeding  the 
reality,  show,  when  they  are  cross-examined,  that 
they  fail  to  appreciate  in  any  tolerable  degree  the 
real  meaning  of  the  figures.  An  old  lady  one  day, 
about  ii  a.m.,  proposed  to  walk  from  the  ^Eggisch- 
horn  to  the  Jungfrau-Joch,  and  to  return  for 
luncheon — the  distance  being  a  good  twelve 
hours'  journey  for  trained  mountaineers.  Every 
detail  of  which  the  huge  mass  is  composed  is 
certain  to  be  underestimated.  A  gentleman  the 
other  day  pointed  out  to  me  a  grand  ice-cliff  at 
the  end  of  a  hanging  glacier,  which  must  have 
been  at  least  ioo  feet  high,  and  asked  me  whether 
that  snow  was  three  feet  deep.  Nothing  is  more 
common  than  for  tourists  to  mistake  some  huge 
pinnacle  of  rock,  as  big  as  a  church  tower,  for  a 
traveller.  The  rocks  of  the  Grands  Mulets,  in  one 
corner  of  which  the  chalet  is  hidden,  are  often 
identified  with  a  party  ascending  Mont  Blanc;  and 
I  have  seen  boulders  as  big  as  a  house  pointed  out 
confidently  as  chamois.  People  who  make  these 
blunders  must  evidently  see  the  mountains  as 
mere  toys,  however  many  feet  they  may  give 
them  at  a  random  guess.  Huge  overhanging 
cliffs  are  to  them  steps  within  the  reach  of  human 
legs;  yawning  crevasses  are  ditches  to  be  jumped; 
and  foaming  waterfalls  are  like  streams  from  penny 


The  Regrets  of  a  Mountaineer     359 

squirts.  Every  one  knows  the  avalanches  on  the 
Jungfrau,  and  the  curiously  disproportionate  ap- 
pearance of  the  little  puffs  of  white  smoke,  which 
are  said  to  be  the  cause  of  the  thunder;  but  the  dis- 
proportion ceases  to  an  eye  that  has  learnt  really  to 
measure  distance,  and  to  know  that  these  smoke- 
puffs  represent  a  cataract  of  crashing  blocks  of  ice. 
Xow  the  first  merit  of  mountaineering  is  that  it 
enables  one  to  have  what  theologians  would  call  an 
experimental  faith  in  the  size  of  mountains — to 
substitute  a  real  living  belief  for  a  dead  intellectual 
assent.  It  enables  one,  first,  to  assign  something 
like  its  true  magnitude  to  a  rock  or  a  snow-slope; 
and,  secondly,  to  measure  that  magnitude  in 
terms  of  muscular  exertion  instead  of  bare  mathe- 
matical units.  Suppose  that  we  are  standing 
upon  the  Wengern  Alp;  between  the  Monch  and 
the  Eiger  there  stretches  a  round  white  bank, 
with  a  curved  outline,  which  we  may  roughly 
compare  to  the  back  of  one  of  Sir  E.  Landseer's 
lions.  The  ordinary  tourists — the  old  man,  the 
woman,  or  the  cripple,  who  are  supposed  to  ap- 
preciate the  real  beauties  of  Alpine  scenery — 
may  look  at  it  comfortably  from  their  hotel.  They 
may  see  its  graceful  curve,  the  long  straight  lines 
that  are  ruled  in  delicate  shading  down  its  sides, 
and  the  contrast  of  the  blinding  white  snow  with 
the  dark  blue  sky  above;  but  they  will  probably 


360       The  Playground  of  Europe 

guess  it  to  be  a  mere  bank — a  snowdrift,  perhaps, 
which  has  been  piled  by  the  last  storm.  If  you 
pointed  out  to  them  one  of  the  great  rocky  teeth 
that  projected  from  its  summit,  and  said  that  it 
was  a  guide,  they-  would  probably  remark  that  he 
looked  very  small,  and  would  fancy  that  he  could 
jump  over  the  bank  with  an  effort.  Now  a 
mountaineer  knows,  to  begin  with,  that  it  is  a 
massive  rocky  rib,  covered  with  snow,  lying  at 
a  sharp  angle,  and  varying  perhaps  from  500  to 
1000  feet  in  height.  So  far  he  might  be  accom- 
panied by  men  of  less  soaring  ambition;  by  an 
engineer  who  had  been  mapping  the  country, 
or  an  artist  who  had  been  carefully  observing  the 
mountains  from  their  bases.  They  might  learn 
in  time  to  interpret  correctly  the  real  meaning  of 
shapes  at  which  the  uninitiated  guess  at  random. 
But  the  mountaineer  can  go  a  step  further,  and 
it  is  the  next  step  which  gives  the  real  significance 
to  those  delicate  curves  and  lines.  He  can 
translate  the  500  or  1000  feet  of  snow-slope  into  a 
more  tangible  unit  of  measurement.  To  him, 
perhaps,  they  recall  the  memory  of  a  toilsome 
ascent,  the  sun  beating  on  his  head  for  five  or  six 
hours,  the  snow  returning  the  glare  with  still 
more  parching  effect ;  a  stalwart  guide  toiling  all 
the  weary  time,  cutting  steps  in  hard  blue  ice, 
the  fragments  hissing  and  spinning  down  the  long 


The  Regrets  of  a  Mountaineer     361 

straight  grooves  in  the  frozen  snow  till  they  lost 
themselves  in  the  yawning  chasm  below;  and 
step  after  step  taken  along  the  slippery  staircase, 
till  at  length  he  triumphantly  sprang  upon  the 
summit  of  the  tremendous  wall  that  no  human 
foot  had  scaled  before.  The  little  black  knobs 
that  rise  above  the  edge  represent  for  him  huge, 
impassable  rocks,  sinking  on  one  side  in  scarped 
slippery  surfaces  towards  the  snow-field,  and  on 
the  other  stooping  in  one  tremendous  cliff  to  a 
distorted  glacier  thousands  of  feet  below.  The 
faint  blue  line  across  the  upper  neve,  scarcely 
distinguishable  to  the  eye,  represents  to  one 
observer  nothing  but  a  trifling  undulation;  a 
second,  perhaps,  knows  that  it  means  a  crevasse; 
the  mountaineer  remembers  that  it  is  the  top  of  a 
huge  chasm,  thirty  feet  across,  and  perhaps  ten 
times  as  deep,  with  perpendicular  sides  of  glim- 
mering blue  ice,  and  fringed  by  thick  rows  of 
enormous  pendent  icicles.  The  marks  that  are 
scored  in  delicate  lines,  such  as  might  be  ruled  by 
a  diamond  on  glass,  have  been  cut  by  innumerable 
streams  trickling  in  hot  weather  from  the  ever- 
lasting snow,  or  ploughed  by  succeeding  ava- 
lanches that  have  slipped  from  the  huge  upper 
snow-fields  above.  In  short,  there  is  no  insignifi- 
cant line  or  mark  that  has  not  its  memory  or  its 
indication  of  the  strange  phenomena  of  the  upper 


362        The  Playground  of  Europe 

world.  True,  the  same  picture  is  painted  upon 
the  retina  of  all  classes  of  observers;  and  so 
Porson  and  a  schoolboy  and  a  peasant  might 
receive  the  same  physical  impression  from  a  set 
of  black  and  white  marks  on  the  page  of  a  Greek 
play;  but  to  one  they  would  be  an  incoherent 
conglomeration  of  unmeaning  and  capricious  lines ; 
to  another  they  would  represent  certain  sounds 
more  or  less  corresponding  to  some  English  words  ; 
whilst  to  the  scholar  they  would  reveal  some  of  the 
noblest  poetry  in  the  world,  and  all  the  associations 
of  successful  intellectual  labour.  I  do  not  say 
that  the  difference  is  quite  so  great  in  the  case  of 
the  mountains;  still  I  am  certain  that  no  one  can 
decipher  the  natural  writing  on  the  face  of  a  snow- 
slope  or  a  precipice  who  has  not  wandered  amongst 
their  recesses,  and  learnt  by  slow  experience  what 
is  indicated  by  marks  which  an  ignorant  observer 
wTould  scarcely  notice.  True,  even  one  who  sees  a 
mountain  for  the  first  time  may  know  that,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  a  scar  on  the  face  of  a  cliff  means, 
for  example,  a  recent  fall  of  a  rock;  but  between 
the  bare  knowledge  and  the  acquaintance  with  all 
which  that  knowledge  implies — the  thunder  of  the 
fall,  the  crash  of  the  smaller  fragments,  the  bound- 
ing energy  of  the  descending  mass — there  is  almost 
as  much  difference  as  between  hearing  that  a 
battle  has  been  fought  and  being  present  at  it 


The  Regrets  of  a  Mountaineer     363 

yourself.  We  have  all  read  descriptions  of  Water- 
loo till  we  are  sick  of  the  subject;  but  I  imagine 
that  our  emotions  on  seeing  the  shattered  well  of 
Hougomont  are  very  inferior  to  those  of  one  of 
the  Guard  who  should  revisit  the  place  where  he 
held  out  for  a  long  day  against  the  assaults  of  the 
French  army. 

Now  to  an  old  mountaineer  the  Oberland  cliffs 
are  full  of  memories ;  and,  more  than  this,  he  has 
learnt  the  language  spoken  by  every  crag  and 
every  wave  of  glacier.  It  is  strange  if  they  do 
not  affect  him  rather  more  powerfully  than  the 
casual  visitor  who  has  never  been  initiated  by 
practical  experience  into  their  difficulties.  To 
him,  the  huge  buttress  which  runs  down  from  the 
Monch  is  something  more  than  an  irregular  pyra- 
mid, purple  with  white  patches  at  the  bottom  and 
pure  white  at  the  top.  He  fills  up  the  bare  outline 
supplied  by  the  senses  with  a  thousand  lively 
images.  He  sees  tier  above  tier  of  rock,  rising  in  a 
gradually  ascending  scale  of  difficulty,  covered  at 
first  by  long  lines  of  the  debris  that  have  been 
splintered  by  frost  from  the  higher  wall,  and 
afterwards  rising  bare  and  black  and  threatening. 
He  knows  instinctively  which  of  the  ledges  has  a 
dangerous  look — where  such  a  bold  mountaineer 
as  John  Lauener  might  slip  on  the  polished  sur- 
face, or  be  in  danger  of  an  avalanche  from  above. 


364        The  Playground  of  Europe 

He  sees  the  little  shell-like  swelling  at  the  foot  of 
the  glacier  crawling  down  the  steep  slope  above, 
and  knows  that  it  means  an  almost  inaccessible 
wall  of  ice;  and  the  steep  snowfields  that  rise 
towards  the  summit  are  suggestive  of  something 
very  different  from  the  picture  which  might  have 
existed  in  the  mind  of  a  German  student,  who  once 
asked  me  whether  it  was  possible  to  make  the 
ascent  on  a  mule. 

Hence,  if  mountains  owe  their  influence  upon 
the  imagination  in  a  great  degree  to  their  size  and 
steepness,  and  apparent  inaccessibility — as  no 
one  can  doubt  that  they  do,  whatever  may  be  the 
explanation  of  the  fact  that  people  like  to  look 
at  big,  steep,  inaccessible  objects — the  advantages 
of  the  mountaineer  are  obvious.  He  can  measure 
those  qualities  on  a  very  different  scale  from  the 
ordinary  traveller.  He  measures  the  size,  not 
by  the  vague  abstract  term  of  so  many  thousand 
feet,  but  by  the  hours  of  labour,  divided  into 
minutes — each  separately  felt — of  strenuous  mus- 
cular exertion.  The  steepness  is  not  expressed 
in  degrees,  but  by  the  memory  of  the  sensation 
produced  when  a  snow-slope  seems  to  be  rising  up 
and  smiting  you  in  the  face ;  when,  far  away  from 
all  human  help,  you  are  clinging  like  a  fly  to  the 
slippery  side  of  a  mighty  pinnacle  in  mid -air. 
And  as  for  the  inaccessibility,  no  one  can  measure 


The  Regrets  of  a  Mountaineer     365 

the  difficulty  of  climbing  a  hill  who  has  not  wearied 
his  muscles  and  brain  in  struggling  against  the 
opposing  obstacles.  Alpine  travellers,  it  is  said, 
have  removed  the  romance  from  the  mountains  by 
climbing  them.  What  they  have  really  done  is  to 
prove  that  there  exists  a  narrow  line  by  which  a 
way  may  be  found  to  the  top  of  any  given  moun- 
tain; but  the  clue  leads  through  innumerable 
inaccessibilities;  true,  you  can  follow  one  path, 
but  to  right  and  left  are  cliffs  which  no  human 
foot  will  ever  tread,  and  whose  terrors  can  only  be 
realised  when  you  are  in  their  immediate  neigh- 
bourhood. The  cliffs  of  the  Matterhom  do  not 
bar  the  way  to  the  top  effectually,  but  it  is  only 
by  forcing  a  passage  through  them  that  you  can 
really  appreciate  their  terrible  significance. 

Hence  I  say  that  the  qualities  which  strike 
every  sensitive  observer  are  impressed  upon  the 
mountaineer  with  tenfold  force  and  intensity.  If 
he  is  as  accessible  to  poetical  influences  as  his 
neighbours — and  I  don't  know  why  he  should  be 
less  so — he  has  opened  new  avenues  of  access 
between  the  scenery  and  his  mind.  He  has  learnt 
a  language  which  is  but  partially  revealed  to 
ordinary  men.  An  artist  is  superior  to  an  un- 
learned picture-seer,  not  merely  because  he  has 
greater  natural  sensibility,  but  because  he  has 
improved    if    by   methodical   experience;   because 


3 


66       The  Playground  of  Europe 


his  senses  have  been  sharpened  by  constant 
practice,  till  he  can  catch  finer  shades  of  colouring, 
and  more  delicate  inflexions  of  line ;  because,  also, 
the  lines  and  colours  have  acquired  new  signifi- 
cance, and  been  associated  with  a  thousand 
thoughts  with  which  the  mass  of  mankind  has 
never  cared  to  connect  them.  The  mountaineer 
is  improved  by  a  similar  process.  But  I  know 
some  sceptical  critics  will  ask,  Does  not  the  way  in 
which  he  is  accustomed  to  regard  mountains 
rather  deaden  their  poetical  influence?  Doesn't 
he  come  to  look  at  them  as  mere  instruments  of 
sport,  and  overlook  their  more  spiritual  teaching? 
Does  not  all  the  excitement  of  personal  adventure 
and  the  noisy  apparatus  of  guides,  and  ropes,  and 
axes,  and  tobacco,  and  the  fun  of  climbing, 
rather  dull  his  perceptions  and  incapacitate  him 
from    perceiving 

The  silence  that  is  in  the  starry  sky, 
The  sleep  that  is  among  the  lonely  hills? 

Well,  I  have  known  some  stupid  and  unpoetical 
mountaineers;  and,  since  I  have  been  dismounted 
from  my  favourite  hobby,  I  think  I  have  met  some 
similar  specimens  among  the  humbler  class  of 
tourists.  There  are  persons,  I  fancy,  who  "do" 
the  Alps;  who  look  upon  the  Lake  of  Lucerne  as 
one  more  task  ticked  off  from  their  memorandum 


The  Regrets  of  a  Mountaineer     ,^6; 

hook,  and  count  up  the  list  of  summits  visible 
from  the  Gornergrat  without  being  penetrated 
with  any  keen  sense  of  sublimity.  And  there  are 
mountaineers  who  are  capable  of  making  a  pun 
on  the  top  of  Mont  Blanc — and  capable  of  nothing 
more.  Still  I  venture  to  deny  that  even  punning 
is  incompatible  with  poetry,  or  that  those  who 
make  the  pun  can  have  no  deeper  feeling  in  their 
bosoms  which  they  are  perhaps  too  shamefaced  to 
utter. 

The  fact  is  that  that  which  gives  its  inexpressible 
charm  to  mountaineering  is  the  incessant  series  of 
exquisite  natural  scenes,  which  are  for  the  most 
part  enjoyed  by  the  mountaineer  alone.  This  is, 
I  am  aware,  a  round  assertion;  but  I  will  try  to 
support  it  by  a  few  of  the  visions  which  arc  re- 
called to  me  by  these  Oberland  cliffs,  and  which  I 
have  seen  profoundly  enjoyed  by  men  who  per- 
haps never  mentioned  them  again,  and  who  prob- 
ably in  describing  their  adventures  scrupulously 
avoided  the  danger  of  being  sentimental. 

Thus  every  traveller  has  occasionally  done  a 
sunrise,  and  a  more  lamentable  proceeding  than 
the  ordinary  view  of  a  sunrise  can  hardly  be 
imagined.  You  are  cold,  miserable,  breakfastless; 
have  risen  shivering  from  a  warm  bed,  and  in  your 
heart  long  only  to  creep  into  bed  again.  To  the 
mountaineer  all  this  is  changed.      He  is  beginning 


368        The  Playground  of  Europe 

a  day  full  of  the  anticipation  of  a  pleasant  excite- 
ment. He  has,  perhaps,  been  waiting  anxiously 
for  fine  weather,  to  try  conclusions  with  some  huge 
giant  not  yet  scaled.  He  moves  out  with  some- 
thing of  the  feeling  with  which  a  soldier  goes  to  the 
assault  of  a  fortress,  but  without  the  same  proba- 
bility of  coming  home  in  fragments ;  the  danger  is 
trifling  enough  to  be  merely  exhilatory,  and  to 
give  a  pleasant  tension  to  the  nerves ;  his  muscles 
feel  firm  and  springy,  and  his  stomach — no  small 
advantage  to  the  enjoyment  of  scenery — is  in 
excellent  order.  He  looks  at  the  sparkling  stars 
with  keen  satisfaction,  prepared  to  enjoy  a  fine 
sunrise  with  all  his  faculties  at  their  best,  and  with 
the  added  pleasure  of  a  good  omen  for  his  day's 
work.  Then  a  huge  dark  mass  begins  to  mould 
itself  slowly  out  of  the  darkness,  the  sky  begins  to 
form  a  background  of  deep  purple,  against  which 
the  outlook  becomes  gradually  more  definite ;  one 
by  one,  the  peaks  catch  the  exquisite  Alpine  glow, 
lighting  up  in  rapid  succession,  like  a  vast  illumina- 
tion; and  when  at  last  the  steady  sunlight  settles 
upon  them,  and  shows  every  rock  and  glacier, 
without  even  a  delicate  film  of  mist  to  obscure 
them,  he  feels  his  heart  bound,  and  steps  out  gaily 
to  the  assault — -just  as  the  people  on  the  Rigi 
are  giving  thanks  that  the  show  is  over  and  that 
they  may  go  to  bed.     Still  grander  is  the  sight 


The  Regrets  of  a  Mountaineer     369 

when  the  mountaineer  has  already  reached  some 
lofty  ridge,  and,  as  the  sun  rises,  stands  between 
the  day  and  the  night — the  valley  still  in  deep 
sleep,  with  the  mists  lying  between  the  folds  of 
the  hills,  and  the  snow-peaks  standing  out  clear 
and  pale  white  just  before  the  sun  reaches  them, 
whilst  a  broad  band  of  orange  light  runs  all 
round  the  vast  horizon.  The  glory  of  sunsets  is 
equally  increased  in  the  thin  upper  air.  The 
grandest  of  all  such  sights  that  live  in  my  memory 
is  that  of  a  sunset  from  the  Aiguille  du  Goiitcr. 
The  snow  at  our  feet  was  glowing  with  rich  light, 
and  the  shadows  in  our  footsteps  a  vivid  green 
by  the  contrast  Beneath  us  was  a  vast  horizon- 
tal floor  of  thin  level  mists  suspended  in  mid-air, 
spread  like  a  canopy  over  the  whole  boundless 
landscape,  and  tinged  with  every  hue  of  sunset. 
Through  its  rents  and  gaps  we  could  see  the  lower 
mountains,  the  distant  plains,  and  a  fragment  of 
the  Lake  of  Geneva  lying  in  a  more  sober  purple. 
Above  us  rose  the  solemn  mass  of  Mont  Blanc  in 
the  richest  glow  of  an  Alpine  sunset.  The  sense 
of  lonely  sublimity  was  almost  oppressive,  and 
although  half  our  party  were  suffering  from  sick- 
ness, I  believe  even  the  guides  were  moved  to  a 
sense  of  solemn  beauty. 

These  grand  scenic  effects  are  occasionally  seen 
by  ordinary  travellers,  though  the  ordinary  travel- 


37°        The  Playground  of  Europe 

ler  is  for  the  most  part  out  of  temper  at  3  a.m. 
The  mountaineer  can  enjoy  them,  both  because 
his  frame  of  mind  is  properly  trained  to  re- 
ceive the  natural  beauty,  and  because  he  alone 
sees  them  with  their  best  accessories,  amidst  the 
silence  of  the  eternal  snow,  and  the  vast  panora- 
mas visible  from  the  loftier  summits.  And  he  has 
a  similar  advantage  in  most  of  the  great  natural 
phenomena  of  the  cloud  and  the  sunshine.  No 
sight  in  the  Alps  is  more  impressive  than  the  huge 
rocks  of  a  black  precipice  suddenly  frowning  out 
through  the  chasms  of  a  storm-cloud.  But  grand 
as  such  a  sight  may  be  from  the  safe  verandahs  of 
the  inn  at  Grinclelwald,  it  is  far  grander  in  the 
silence  of  the  Central  Alps  amongst  the  savage 
wilderness  of  rock  and  snow.  Another  character- 
istic effect  of  the  High  Alps  often  presents  itself 
when  we  have  been  climbing  for  two  or  three  hours, 
with  nothing  in  sight  but  the  varying  wreaths  of 
mist  that  chase  each  other  monotonously  along 
the  rocky  ribs  up  whose  snow-covered  backbone 
we  have  been  laboriously  fighting  our  way.  Sud- 
denly there  is  a  puff  of  wind,  and  looking  round 
we  find  that  we  have  in  an  instant  pierced  the 
clouds,  and  emerged,  as  it  were,  on  the  surface 
of  the  ocean  of  vapour.  Beneath  us  stretches  for 
hundreds  of  miles  the  level  fleecy  floor,  and  above 
us  shines  out  clear  in  the  eternal  sunshine  every 


The  Regrets  of  a  Mountaineer     371 

mountain,  from  Mont  Blanc  to  Monte  Rosa  and 
the  Jungfrau.  What,  again,  in  the  lower  regions, 
can  equal  the  mysterious  charm  of  gazing  from 
the  edge  of  a  torn  rocky  parapet  into  an  appar- 
ently fathomless  abyss,  where  nothing  but  what 
an  Alpine  traveller  calls  a  "strange  formless 
wreathing  of  vapour"  indicates  the  storm-wind 
that  is  raging  below  us?  I  might  go  on  indefin- 
itely recalling  the  strangely  impressive  scenes  that 
frequently  startle  the  traveller  in  the  waste  upper 
world ;  but  language  is  feeble  indeed  to  convey 
even  a  glimmering  of  what  is  to  be  seen  to  those 
who  have  not  seen  it  for  themselves,  whilst  to 
those  who  have  it  can  be  little  more  than  a  peg  up- 
on which  to  hang  their  own  recollections.  These 
glories,  in  which  the  mountain  Spirit  reveals  him- 
self to  his  true  worshippers,  are  only  to  be  gained  by 
the  appropriate  service  of  climbing — at  some  risk, 
though  a  very  trifling  risk,  if  he  is  approached  with 
due  form  and  ceremony — into  the  farthest  recesses 
of  his  shrines.  And  without  seeing  them,  I  main- 
tain that  no  man  has  really  seen  the  Alps. 

The  difference  between  the  exoteric  and  the 
esoteric  school  of  mountaineers  may  be  indicated 
by  their  different  view  of  glaciers.  At  Grindel- 
wald,  for  example,  it  is  the  fashion  to  go  and 
'"see  the  glaciers" — heaven  save  the  mark! 
Ladies    in    costumes,    heavy    German    professors, 


37 2       The  Playground  of  Europe 

Americans  doing  the  Alps  at  a  gallop,  Cook's 
tourists,  and  other  varieties  of  a  well-known 
genus,  go  or!  in  shoals  and  see — what?  A  gigantic 
mass  of  ice,  strangely  torn  with  a  few  of  the 
exquisite  blue  crevasses,  but  defiled  and  prostrate 
in  dirt  and  ruins.  A  stream  foul  with  mud  oozes 
out  from  the  base;  the  whole  mass  seems  to  be 
melting  fast  away;  the  summer  sun  has  evidently 
got  the  best  of  it  in  these  lower  regions,  and  nothing 
can  resist  him  but  the  great  mounds  of  decaying 
rock  that  strew  the  surface  in  confused  lumps. 
It  is  as  much  like  the  glacier  of  the  upper  regions 
as  the  melting  fragments  of  snow  in  a  London 
street  are  like  the  surface  of  the  fresh  snow  that 
has  just  fallen  in  a  country  field.  And  by  way 
of  improving  its  attractions  a  perpetual  picnic  is 
going  on,  and  the  ingenious  natives  have  hewed  a 
tunnel  into  the  ice,  for  admission  to  which  they 
charge  certain  centimes.  The  unlucky  glacier 
at  his  latter  end  reminds  me  of  a  wretched  whale 
stranded  on  a  beach,  dissolving  into  masses  of 
blubber,  and  hacked  by  remorseless  fishermen, 
instead  of  plunging  at  his  ease  in  the  deep  blue 
water.  Far  above,  where  the  glacier  begins  his 
course,  he  is  seen  only  by  the  true  mountaineer. 
There  are  vast  amphitheatres  of  pure  snow,  of 
which  the  glacier  known  to  tourists  is  merely  the 
insignificant   drainage,   but  whose   very  existence 


The  Regrets  of  a  Mountaineer     373 

they  do  not  generally  suspect.  They  are  utterly 
ignorant  that  from  the  top  of  the  icefall  which 
they  visit  you  may  walk  for  hours  on  the  eternal 
ice.  After  a  long  climb  you  come  to  the  region 
where  the  glacier  is  truly  at  its  noblest;  where  the 
surface  is  a  spotless  white;  where  the  crevasses  are 
enormous  rents  sinking  to  profound  depths,  with 
walls  of  the  purest  blue;  where  the  glacier  is  torn 
and  shattered  by  the  energetic  forces  which  mould 
it,  but  has  an  expression  of  superabundant  power, 
like  a  full  stream  fretting  against  its  banks  and 
plunging  through  the  vast  gorges  that  it  has  hewn 
for  itself  in  the  course  of  centuries.  The  bases 
of  the  mountains  are  immersed  in  a  deluge  of 
cockneyism — fortunately  a  shallow  deluge — whilst 
their  summits  rise  high  into  the  bracing  air,  where 
everything  is  pure  and  poetical. 

The  difference  which  I  have  thus  endeavoured 
to  indicate  is  more  or  less  traceable  in  a  wider 
sense.  The  mountains  are  exquisitely  beautiful, 
indeed,  from  whatever  points  of  view  we  contem- 
plate them;  and  the  mountaineer  would  lose  much 
if  he  never  saw  the  beauties  of  the  lower  valleys, 
of  pasturages  deep  in  flowers,  and  dark  pine- 
forests  with  the  summits  shining  from  far  off 
between  the  stems.  Only,  as  it  seems  to  me, 
he  has  the  exclusive  prerogative  of  thoroughly 
enjoving  one     and  thai    the  most    characteristic, 


374       The  Playground  of  Europe 

though  by  no  means  only,  element  of  the  scenery. 
There  may  be  a  very  good  dinner  spread  before 
twenty  people;  but  if  nineteen  of  them  were  tee- 
totalers, and  the  twentieth  drank  his  wine  like  a 
man,  he  would  be  the  only  one  to  do  it  full  justice ; 
the  others  might  praise  the  meat  or  the  fruits,  but 
he  wTould  alone  enjoy  the  champagne;  and  in  the 
great  feast  which  Nature  spreads  before  us  (a 
stock  metaphor,  which  emboldens  me  to  make  the 
comparison),  the  high  mountain  scenery  acts  the 
part  of  the  champagne.  Unluckily,  too,  the  tee- 
totalers are  very  apt,  in  this  case  also,  to  sit  in 
judgment  upon  their  more  adventurous  neigh- 
bours. Especially  are  they  pleased  to  carp  at 
the  views  from  high  summits.  I  have  been 
constantly  asked,  with  a  covert  sneer,  "Did  it 
repay  you?" — a  question  which  involves  the 
assumption  that  one  wants  to  be  repaid,  as  though 
the  labour  were  not  itself  part  of  the  pleasure,  and 
which  implies  a  doubt  that  the  view  is  really  enjoy- 
able. People  are  always  demonstrating  that  the 
lower  views  are  the  most  beautiful;  and  at  the 
same  time  complaining  that  mountaineers  fre- 
quently turn  back  without  looking  at  the  view 
from  the  top,  as  though  that  would  necessarily 
imply  that  they  cared  nothing  for  scenery.  In 
opposition  to  which  I  must  first  remark  that,  as  a 
rule,  every  step  of  an  ascent  has  a  beauty  of  its 


The  Regrets  of  a  Mountaineer     375 

own,  which  one  is  quietly  absorbing  even  when 
one  is  not  directly  making  it  a  subject  of  contem- 
plation, and  that  the  view  from  the  top  is  generally 
the  crowning  glory  of  the  whole. 

It  will  be  enough  if  I  conclude  with  an  attempt 
to  illustrate  this  last  assertion;  and  I  will  do  it  by 
still  referring  to  the  Oberland.  Every  visitor  with 
a  soul  for  the  beautiful  admires  the  noble  form  of 
the  Wetterhorn — the  lofty  snow-crowned  pyramid 
rising  in  such  light  and  yet  massive  lines  from  its 
huge  basement  of  perpendicular  cliffs.  The  Wet- 
terhorn has,  however,  a  further  merit.  To  my 
mind — and  1  believe  most  connoisseurs  of  moun- 
tain tops  agree  with  me — it  is  one  of  the  most 
impressive  summits  in  the  Alps.  It  is  not  a 
sharp  pinnacle  like  the  Weisshorn,  or  a  cupola 
like  Mont  Blanc,  or  a  grand  rocky  tooth  like  the 
Monte  Rosa,  but  a  long  and  nearly  horizontal 
knife-edge,  which,  as  seen  from  either  end,  has  of 
course  the  appearance  of  a  sharp-pointed  cone. 
It  is  when  balanced  upon  this  ridge — -sitting  astride 
of  the  knife-edge  on  which  one  can  hardly  stand 
without  giddiness — that  one  full}7  appreciates  an 
Alpine  precipice.  -Mr.  Justice  Wills  has  admir- 
ably described  the  first  ascent,  and  the  impression 
it  made  upon  him,  in  a  paper  which  has  become 
classical  for  succeeding  adventurers,  behind  you 
the     snow-slope    sinks     with     perilous     steepness 


376        The  Playground  of  Europe 

towards  the  wilderness  of  glacier  and  rock  through 
which  the  ascent  has  lain.  But  in  front  the  ice 
sinks  with  even  greater  steepness  for  a  few  feet  or 
yards.  Then  it  curves  over  and  disappears,  and 
the  next  thing  that  the  eye  catches  is  the  meadow- 
land  of  Grind  el  wald,  some  9000  feet  below.  I 
have  looked  down  many  precipices,  where  the  eye 
can  trace  the  course  of  every  pebble  that  bounds 
down  the  awful  slopes,  and  where  I  have  shud- 
dered as  some  dislodged  fragment  of  rock  showed 
the  course  which,  in  case  of  accident,  fragments  of 
my  own  body  would  follow.  A  precipice  is  always, 
for  obvious  reasons,  far  more  terrible  from  above 
than  from  below.  The  creeping,  tingling  sensa- 
tion which  passes  through  one's  limbs — even  when 
one  knows  oneself  to  be  in  perfect  safety — testi- 
fies to  the  thrilling  influence  of  the  sight.  But  I 
have  never  so  realised  the  terrors  of  a  terrific 
cliff  as  when  I  could  not  see  it.  The  awful  gulf 
which  intervened  between  me  and  the  green 
meadows  struck  the  imagination  by  its  invis- 
ibility. It  wTas  like  the  view  which  may  be  seen 
from  the  ridge  of  a  cathedral  roof,  where  the  eaves 
have  for  their  immediate  background  the  pave- 
ment of  the  streets  belowT;  only  this  cathedral 
was  9000  feet  high.  Now,  any  one  standing  at  the 
foot  of  the  Wetterhorn  may  admire  its  stupen- 
dous massiveness  and  steepness;  but,  to  feel  its 


The  Regrets  of  a  Mountaineer    377 

influence  enter  in  the  very  marrow  of  one's  bones, 
it  is  necessary  to  stand  at  the  summit,  and  to 
fancy  the  one  little  slide  down  the  short  ice-slope, 
to  be  followed  apparently  by  a  bound  into  clear 
air  and  a  fall  down  to  the  houses,  from  heights 
where  only  the  eagle  ventures  to  soar. 

This  is  one  of  the  Alpine  beauties,  which,  of 
course,  is  beyond  the  power  of  art  to  imitate,  and 
which  people  are  therefore  apt  to  ignore.  But  it  is 
not  the  only  one  to  be  seen  on  the  high  summits. 
It  is  often  said  that  these  views  are  not '  'beautiful" 
— apparently  because  they  won't  go  into  a  pic- 
ture, or,  to  put  it  more  fairly,  because  no  picture 
can  in  the  faintest  degree  imitate  them.  But 
without  quarrelling  about  words,  I  think  that, 
even  if  "beautiful"  be  not  the  most  correct 
epithet,  they  have  a  marvellously  stimulating 
effect  upon  the  imagination.  Let  us  look  round 
from  this  wonderful  pinnacle  in  mid-air,  and  note 
one  or  two  of  the  most  striking  elements  of  the 
scenery. 

You  are,  in  the  first  place,  perched  on  a  cliff, 
whose  presence  is  the  more  felt  because  it  is 
unseen.  Then  you  are  in  a  region  over  which 
eternal  silence  is  brooding.  Not  a  sound  ever 
comes  there,  except  the  occasional  fall  of  a  splin- 
tered fragment  of  rock,  or  a  layer  of  snow;  no 
stream  is  heard  trickling,  and  the  sounds  of  animal 


378        The  Playground  of  Europe 

life  are  left  thousands  of  feet  below.  The  most 
that  you  can  hear  is  some  mysterious  noise  made 
by  the  wind  eddying  round  the  gigantic  rocks; 
sometimes  a  strange  flapping  sound,  as  if  an 
unearthly  flag  were  shaking  its  invisible  folds 
in  the  air.  The  enormous  tract  of  country  over 
which  your  view  extends— most  of  it  dim  and 
almost  dissolved  into  air  by  distance — intensifies 
the  strange  influence  of  the  silence.  You  feel  the 
force  of  the  line  I  have  quoted  from  Wordsworth — 

The  sleep  that  is  among  the  lonely  hills. 

None  of  the  travellers  whom  you  can  see  crawling 
at  your  feet  has  the  least  conception  of  what  is 
meant  by  the  silent  solitudes  of  the  High  Alps. 
To  you,  it  is  like  a  return  to  the  stir  of  active  life, 
when,  after  hours  of  lonely  wandering,  you  return 
to  hear  the  tinkling  of  the  cow-bells  below;  to 
them  the  same  sound  is  the  ultimate  limit  of  the 
habitable  world. 

Whilst  your  mind  is  properly  toned  by  these 
influences,  you  become  conscious  of  another  fact, 
to  which  the  common  variety  of  tourists  is  neces- 
sarily insensible.  You  begin  to  find  out  for  the 
first  time  what  the  mountains  really  are.  On  one 
side,  you  look  back  upon  the  huge  reservoirs  from 
which  the  Oberland  glaciers  descend.  You  see 
the   vast   stores   from  which   the   great  rivers   of 


The  Regrets  of  a  Mountaineer     379 

Europe  are  replenished,  the  monstrous  crawling 
masses  that  are  carving  the  mountains  into  shape, 
and  the  gigantic  bulwarks  that  separate  two 
great  quarters  of  the  world.  From  below  these 
wild  regions  are  half  invisible;  they  are  masked 
by  the  outer  line  of  mountains;  and  it  is  not  till 
you  are  able  to  command  them  from  some  lofty 
point  that  you  can  appreciate  the  grandeur  of  the 
huge  barriers,  and  the  snow  that  is  piled  within 
their  folds.  There  is  another  half  of  the  view 
equally  striking.  Looking  towards  the  north,  the 
whole  of  Switzerland  is  couched  at  your  feet;  the 
Jura  and  the  Black  Forest  lie  on  the  far  horizon. 
And  then  you  know  what  is  the  nature  of  a  really 
mountainous  country.  From  below  everything 
is  seen  in  a  kind  of  distorted  perspective.  The 
people  of  the  valley  naturally  think  that  the 
valley  is  everything — that  the  country  resembles 
old-fashioned  maps,  where  a  few  sporadic  lumps 
are  distributed  amongst  towns  and  plains.  The 
true  proportions  reveal  themselves  as  you  ascend. 
The  valleys,  you  can  now  see,  are  nothing  but 
narrow  trenches  scooped  out  amidst  a  tossing 
waste  of  mountain,  just  to  carry  off  the  drainage. 
The  great  ridges  run  hither  and  thither,  having  it 
all  their  own  way,  wild  and  untameable  region.-, 
of  rock  or  open  grass  or  forest,  at  whose  leet 
the   valleys  exist  on   sufferance.     Creeping  about 


380        The  Playground  of  Europe 

amongst  the  roots  of  the  hills,  you  half  miss  the 
hills  themselves;  you  quite  fail  to  understand  the 
massiveness  of  the  mountain  chains,  and,  there- 
fore, the  wonderful  energy  of  the  forces  that  have 
heaved  the  surface  of  the  world  into  these  dis- 
torted shapes.  And  it  is  to  a  half-conscious  sense 
of  the  powers  that  must  have  been  at  work  that 
a  great  part  of  the  influence  of  mountain  scenery 
is  due.  Geologists  tell  us  that  a  theory  of  cata- 
strophes is  unphilosophical ;  but,  whatever  may  be 
the  scientific  truth,  our  minds  are  impressed  as 
though  we  were  witnessing  the  results  of  some 
incredible  convulsion.  At  Stonehenge  we  ask 
what  human  beings  could  have  erected  these 
strange  grey  monuments,  and  in  the  mountains  we 
instinctively  ask  what  force  can  have  carved  out 
the  Matterhorn,  and  placed  the  Wetterhorn  on  its 
gigantic  pedestal.  Now,  it  is  not  till  we  reach 
some  commanding  point  that  we  realise  the  amaz- 
ing extent  of  country  over  which  the  solid  ground 
has  been  shaking  and  heaving  itself  in  irresistible 
tumult. 

Something,  it  is  true,  of  this  last  effect  may  be 
seen  from  such  mountains  as  the  Rigi  or  the  Faul- 
horn.  There,  too,  one  seems  to  be  at  the  centre  of 
a  vast  sphere,  the  earth  bending  up  in  a  cup-like 
form  to  meet  the  sky,  and  the  blue  vault  above 
stretching  in  an  arch  majestical  by  its  enormous 


The  Regrets  of  a  Mountaineer     381 

extent.  There  you  seem  to  see  a  sensible  fraction 
of  the  world  at  your  feet.  But  the  effect  is  far 
less  striking  when  other  mountains  obviously 
look  down  upon  you;  when,  as  it  were,  you  are 
looking  at  the  waves  of  the  great  ocean  of  hills 
merely  from  the  crest  of  one  of  the  waves  them- 
selves, and  not  from  some  lighthouse  that  rises 
far  over  their  heads;  for  the  Wetterhom,  like  the 
Eiger,  Monch,  and  Jungfrau,  owes  one  great 
beauty  to  the  fact  that  it  is  on  the  edge  of  the 
lower  country,  and  stands  between  the  real  giants 
and  the  crowd  of  inferior,  though  still  enormous, 
masses  in  attendance  upon  them.  And,  in  the 
next  place,  your  mind  is  far  better  adapted  to 
receive  impressions  of  sublimity  when  you  are 
alone,  in  a  silent  region,  with  a  black  sky  above 
and  giant  cliffs  all  round ;  with  a  sense  still  in  your 
mind,  if  not  of  actual  danger,  still  of  danger  that 
would  become  real  with  the  slightest  relaxation 
of  caution,  and  with  the  world  divided  from  you 
by  hours  of  snow  and  rock. 

I  will  go  no  further,  not  because  I  have  no  more 
to  say,  but  because  descriptions  of  scenery  soon 
become  wearisome,  and  because  I  have,  1  hope, 
said  enough  to  show  that  the  mountaineer  may 
boast  of  some  intellectual  pleasures;  that  he  is  not 
a  mere  scrambler,  but  that  he  looks  for  poetical 
impressions,  as  well  as  for  such  small  glory  as  his 


6 


82        The  Playground  of  Europe 


achievements  may  gain  in  a  very  small  circle. 
Something  of  what  he  gains  fortunately  sticks  by 
him:  he  does  not  quite  forget  the  mountain 
language ;  his  eye  still  recognises  the  space  and  the 
height  and  the  glory  of  the  lofty  mountains.  And 
yet  there  is  some  pain  in  wandering  ghostlike 
among  the  scenes  of  his  earlier  pleasures.  For 
my  part,  I  try  in  vain  to  hug  myself  in  a  sense 
of  comfort.  I  turn  over  in  bed  when  I  hear  the 
stamping  of  heavily  nailed  shoes  along  the  passage 
of  an  inn  about  2  a.m.  I  feel  the  skin  of  my  nose 
complacently  when  I  see  others  returning  with 
a  glistening  tight  aspect  about  that  unluckily 
prominent  feature,  and  know  that  in  a  day  or  two 
it  will  be  raw  and  blistered  and  burning.  I  think, 
in  a  comfortable  inn  at  night,  of  the  miseries  of 
those  who  are  trying  to  sleep  in  damp  hay,  or  on 
hard  boards  of  chalets,  at  once  cold  and  stuffy 
and  haunted  by  innumerable  fleas.  I  congratulate 
myself  on  having  a  whole  skin  and  unfractured 
bones,  and  on  the  small  danger  of  ever  breaking 
them  over  an  Alpine  precipice.  But  yet  I  secretly 
know  that  these  consolations  are  feeble.  It  is 
little  use  to  avoid  early  rising  and  discomfort, 
and  even  fleas,  if  one  also  loses  the  pleasures  to 
which  they  were  the  sauce — rather  too  piquante  a 
sauce  occasionally,  it  must  be  admitted.  The 
philosophy   is   all   very   well   which   recommends 


The  Regrets  of  a  Mountaineer     383 

moderate  enjoyment,  regular  exercise,  and  a 
careful  avoidance  of  risk  and  overexcitement. 
That  is,  it  is  all  very  well  so  long  as  risk  and  ex- 
citement and  immoderate  enjoyment  are  out  of 
your  power;  but  it  does  not  stand  the  test  of 
looking  on  and  seeing  them  just  beyond  your 
reach.  In  time,  no  doubt,  a  man  may  grow  calm; 
he  may  learn  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  and  the  ex- 
quisite beauties  of  the  lower  regions- -though  they, 
too,  are  most  fully  enjoyed  when  they  have  a 
contrast  with  beauties  of  a  different,  and  pleasures 
of  a  keener,  excitement.  When  first  debarred,  at 
any  rate,  one  feels  like  a  balloon  full  of  gas,  and 
fixed  by  immovable  ropes  to  the  prosaic  ground. 
It  is  pleasant  to  lie  on  one's  back  in  a  bed  of 
rhododendrons,  and  look  up  to  a  mountain  top 
peering  at  one  from  above  a  bank  of  cloud;  but 
it  is  pleasantest  when  one  has  qualified  oneself 
for  repose  by  climbing  the  peak  the  day  before 
and  becoming  familiar  with  its  terrors  and  its 
beauties.  In  time,  doubtless,  one  may  get  re- 
conciled to  anything;  one  may  settle  down  to 
be  a  caterpillar,  even  after  one  has  known  the1 
pleasures  of  being  a  butterfly;  one  may  become 
philosophical,  and  have  one's  clothes  let  out;  and 
even  in  time,  perhaps,— though  it  is  almost,  too 
terrible  to  contemplate,—  be  content  with  a  mule 
or   a   carriage,    or    that    lowest     depth     to  which 


384        The  Playground  of  Europe 

human  beings  can  sink,  and  for  which  the  English 
language  happily  affords  no  name,  a  chaise  a 
porteur:  and  even  in  such  degradation  the  memory 
of  better  times  may  be  pleasant;  for  I  doubt 
much  whether  it  is  truth  the  poet  sings — 

That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering 
happier  things. 

Certainly,  to  a  philosophical  mind,  the  sentiment 
is  doubtful.  For  my  part,  the  fate  which  has  cut 
me  off,  if  I  may  use  the  expression,  in  the  flower 
of  my  youth,  and  doomed  me  to  be  a  non-climbing 
animal  in  future,  is  one  which  ought  to  exclude 
grumbling.  I  cannot  indicate  it  more  plainly, 
for  I  might  so  make  even  the  grumbling  in  which 
I  have  already  indulged  look  like  a  sin.  I  can 
only  say  that  there  are  some  very  delightful  things 
in  which  it  is  possible  to  discover  an  infinitesimal 
drop  of  bitterness,  and  that  the  mountaineer  who 
undertakes  to  cut  himself  off  from  his  favourite 
pastime,  even  for  reasons  which  he  will  admit  in 
his  wildest  moods  to  be  more  than  amply  sufficient, 
must  expect  at  times  to  feel  certain  pangs  of 
regret,  however  quickly  they  may  be  smothered. 

THE   END 


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